


Bits and Pieces

by Eremiss



Series: Guinevere Ashe [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Affection, Affectionate Teasing, Bad Poetry, Comfort, Consensual Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Early Relationship, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gardening, Heterosexual Sex, Humor, Inner Dialogue, Insecurity and Reassurance, Introspection, Little Bit of Everything, Nightmare, Other tags to be added later, Rambling, Self-Reflection, Spoilers, Tumblr Prompt, good poetry, it's really all over the place, nsfw chapters are marked!, one-sided perspective, poetry gone corny, silliness, sweet things turning corny for a laugh, tumblr asks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2020-12-24 04:11:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eremiss/pseuds/Eremiss
Summary: Stories, drabbles and pieces that aren't part of a prompt challenge and didn't feel quite long enough to be submitted as their own fic, plus responses to Asks and Prompts from tumblr.Update: Figured out how to include it in the Guinevere Ashe collection :D





	1. Index

Not in any particular order and submitted with absolutely no rhyme or reason. Just a place to compile my various prompt and ask responses (mostly Prompts). If in-game timeline matters, it will be referenced at the beginning of the chapter.

Everything in these stories is canon, unless a particular chapter explicitly says it's not!

Asks / Prompt \- Questions/prompts received on Tumblr  
Drabble \- Short fics and stories that didn't feel long enough to be their own post

NSFW chapters will be marked! ;B

  1. **Index** \- You are here!
  2. **Swords and Pens** (drabble) - Thancred PoV. Big swords are dumb <strike>but snooping isn't</strike>.
  3. **Free Ride** (drabble) - Duskfeather is intimidating. 
  4. **"You new around here?"** (drabble) - Gwen finds a new street urchin to mother
  5. **Status Ailment** (drabble) - Blindness is a bitch
  6. **"Well one of us is going to have to change."** (drabble)- Alphinaud steals Gwen's look. AKA: What made Gwen decide to get a new outfit.
  7. **Manderville** (ask/prompt) - A journal entry about a certain detective.
  8. **Digging your fingers into fresh dirt** (ask/prompt) - Foraging in the Shroud
  9. **"What are you doing in my bed?" NSFW** (ask/prompt) - _Lemony goodness. _Explicit.
  10. **Comfort food** (ask/prompt) - Skip has to eat _something_. (Early ShB ALC/CUL questline.)
  11. **"You have to leave right now."** (ask/prompt) - Post-Innocence ShB MSQ spoilers.
  12. **Nicknames? & if so, how did they originate?** (ask/prompt) - Gwen muses to herself about nicknames.
  13. **Harsh Whisper **(ask/prompt)** \- **Thancred PoV. Nightmares are a bitch
  14. **Flowers** (drabble) - How _did_ all those flowers wind up on her balcony, anyway?
  15. **Kiss on a place of insecurity** (ask/prompt) - Someone's in a bad mood and feeling a bit down on themselves. <strike>Maybe teasing them will help.</strike>
  16. **Rambling about Gwen, her journal, and Thancred's snooping** (ask/prompt) - Some headcannon about Gwen's journal and how she feels about Thancred reading it, feat. unexpected Urianger.
  17. **Untitled drabble** (drabble) - Gwen was doin' a heckin' worry, but she's ok now. Also, titles are hard.
  18. **"That's gonna leave a bruise..."** (ask/prompt) - Thancred PoV. Gwen's first nightmare in his presence does not go smoothly.
  19. **"You're not in bed, I came looking for you"** (ask/prompt) - Gwen can't sleep, so she learns the lute instead.
  20. **Intimacy asks NSFW **(ask/prompt) - Not too explicit but, you know.

_Shitposty summaries are my favorite kind_


	2. Swords and Pens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your power level is directly proportional to the size of your sword and edginess of your armor, doncha know

Thancred didn’t know where Gwen got the massive sword, or why she’d decided to lug it all the way to her room and hang it on her wall. Perhaps it was some sort of gift or trophy.

He did know, however, that it looked utterly ridiculous.

The sword, if he could even consider it one, was so tall Gwen would have to wear it at a slant across her back to keep it from touching the ground. The handle of the bloody thing was as long as Thancred’s forearm, giving ample room for the two hands necessary to drag it around and all the shifting and adjusting of grip that wielding it would entail.

The blade was simple and utilitarian in design, aside from the bat-like shape of the crossguard. It was all plain metal and with simple dyed leather wrapped about the hilt for grip, as was Gwen’s preference when it came to…most things, actually.

Utilitarian. Thancred snorted. At least it wasn’t an eyesore like some of the gaudy things nobles with more money than sense would wave about.

There was no way a sword that huge could be anything even approaching practical, especially for the sort of quick, fast movements a red mage preferred to utilize. Thancred had trouble imagining someone wielding it with any sort of speed, let alone finesse. If it did somehow manage to lumber into its target he was sure it would cut them clean in two, but he didn’t see that happen unless the intended target was asleep, or already dead.

However… He glanced it over again.

It wasn’t hanging on the wall, as he’d first thought. It was on Gwen’s weapon rack alongside her assorted training weapons, which was rather…curious. It shared space with a thaumaturgy staff, a dusty lance, daggers and a saber, each of them with dulled edges for sparring. No one could say the Warrior of Light didn’t at least make an effort to learn other methods of combat, questionably successful as those efforts may have been.

But the greatsword wasn’t dull. It’s edges were honed, shining keenly in the light flooding in from the window. And, sheer preposterousness and impracticality notwithstanding, the blade was theoretically the correct size for someone of Gwen’s height.

Thancred frowned, touching the grip. It was lightly worn and marked by a few dubious stains, their remains warped and faded by time and unsuccessful attempts to remove them. The patterns of wear indicated it had been caused by frequent use rather than neglect. 

Giving in to his curiosity for a moment, the rogue wrapped his hand around the handle and lightly tugged. 

It didn’t budge. 

Well, at least there was no need to worry about it toppling from the rack and causing any terribly unfortunate accidents. 

Thancred tried again with a bit of effort. An involuntary sound of exertion slipped past his lips as the blade lifted a few ilms. 

Thal’s balls it was heavy, but not impossibly so.

Thancred’s frown deepened. Did Gwen…actually use this ridiculous thing? Since when?

His mind immediately flitted back to how much Gwen had changed by the time they’d finally reunited in Loth ast Gnath, some of those differences more readily apparent than others.

There was no question she’d grown stronger, and with all she’d been through it was hardly surprising. Her refined physique and the cut of her arms were easy to see, and Thancred had felt the new definition in her muscles when he’d had the whim to map her figure with his hands, but he hadn’t spared those details whole lot of thought. He’d grown leaner and stronger too, after all. 

But the idea that some of her newly acquired strength could have come from toting and swinging around dozens of ponze of steel was entertaining to think about, at least.

That said, Thancred had never seen her using it. And it wasn’t as though she could be subtle with it, in combat or otherwise. He couldn’t recall anyone claiming to have seen the Warrior of Light faffing about with a sword as long as she was tall, either.

But here it was, sharp and maintained. Curious…

Perhaps the reason Thancred had initially stolen into Gwen’s room would provide him with some answers. He could ask her, of course, but Gwen could be terribly obtuse when she wanted to try and handle a problem herself and not ‘worry anyone’, often to her own detriment. Which served as a reminder that he didn’t have much time to waste.

Thancred promised himself that, one of these days, he’d tell Gwen how pitiful the lock on her desk drawer was. One of these days…Preferably after he thought of a conceivable way he could have discovered such a thing that didn’t sound incriminating.

This was necessary. He was helping.

The drawer was cluttered with pens and crumpled paper, an old book about Gridania’s pre-Calamity architecture shoved all the way in the back. Gwen had put nearly an ilm’s worth of loose pages into the old thing in an effort to keep them flat, each of them rescued for one reason or another when she’d disposed of the journal they’d come from.

The pages were as much a puzzle as anything else. They held information but didn’t provide a lot of context, and thoughts were half-finished or cut aggravatingly short as often as not. But they were a start, and Thancred had a gift for puzzles anyway.

In less than a breath he’d folded and pocketed a dozen pages, pressed the book right back where he’d found it and slid the drawer closed again, the lock clicking into place with a pitiful tapping sound.

Thancred turned and made for the door, casting another sidelong glance at the towering sword. An idea struck him and he quickly cast his eyes around the room.

Despite the expectation, he found no heavy armor to match the heavy blade. Strange.

He stole out of the door and shut it softly behind him, ghosting down the hall and disappearing into is own room just as familiar voices began to carry down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <s>The armor’s in the closet. Bad investigation check was bad.</s>
> 
> Don’t ask me how Gwen gets in and out of the Stones in her DRK stuff with her crappy stealth abilities. When in doubt, assume magic.
> 
> I didn’t do the DRK storyline till 70 because WoW made me scared to tank OTL Now that I’m playing it I love it, though!  
I’m imagining Gwen would have started it around 55ish, completing the 30-50 quests around the end of HVW MSQ, and probably completing the 50-60 questline before 4.0
> 
> What does everyone else think of the huge swords? Some are just zweihanders, which are big but not too crazy. And some are just _Oh Lawd He Comin’._


	3. Free Ride

Thancred stared at Gwen, sitting easily atop her griffin as though he were a docile chocobo, with a look a few ilms shy of utter bafflement.

Gwen’s hand hovered in the air, an offer.

He stared at Duskfeather.

Dusfeather stared evenly back, one feathered ear twitching.

Thancred shifted his gaze back to her proffered hand. One of his brows arched in a way that made Gwen think it was something he’d practiced.

“He won’t bite,” she offered, curling her fingers beckoningly.

Thancred’s laugh was half-genuine, half-nervous, and all skeptical. “How reassuring.”

Even so, he took her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dared myself to write a tiny thing!
> 
> Duskfeather has a +5 to passive intimidation.
> 
> Thancred's like: 'but can't we just walk tho'


	4. "You new around here?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veeery, very early in ARR / Pre- joining the Scions.
> 
> Prompt: A character’s money is stolen

Gwen felt a telltale tug at her hip and paused. She turned around in time to watch a hip-high head of blonde hair scurry away into the crowd, feline ears pressed flat to their hair.

She folded her arms, a pout tugging at her lips, and forced people to weave around where she’d stopped in the middle of the street. She didn’t noticed the sideways glares or incensed looks, instead intently tracking the erstwhile pickpocket as they bounced left, right and center around the crowd.

Gwen hadn’t recognized the blonde head, nor had she had to worry about little hands in her pockets recently. Perhaps the child was a recent arrival. She tapped her foot, debating, then started after them.

Not much later, and with a bit of help, Gwen found her thief’s hidey hole in one of Pearl Lane’s many alleyways.

The little girl’s shock at being discovered quickly devolved into terror deapite Gwen’s calm greeting. She threw herself as deep into her little den as she could, curling up in a defensive little ball with her back (literally) to a corner, ears flat and tail coiled around her legs.

It made Gwen’s heart ache, sympathy cracking her expression. She couldn’t have been older than seven. “Now, now, it’s alright,” she soothed, sitting on the warm bricks of the street. “I’m not mad, alright? Don't worry.”

She might have relaxed a little, but her watery blue eyes were still full of distrust and worry.

Gwen leaned her head to one side, “I’m Guinevere. What’s your name?”

The child hesitated, relaxing a little more. “That’s…a long name,” she mumbled.

It wasn’t really, particularly compared to some Ishgardian names. Gwen smiled, “It is, isn’t it? How about Gwen, then? Much shorter.” She waited for the girl to finish nodding. “And yours?”

“Mm…M’lona.”

“M’lona. That’s a nice name.” Gwen leaned her head the other way, “M’lona, do you know why I’m here?”

M’lona blanched. “N-no.”

Gwen fixed her expression into one of neutral disapproval, mouth flattening into a patient line. She regarded the little miqo'te with a knowing look.

M’lona’s guilty eyes darted all over and she made a series of half-sounds before abandoning the hope of talking her way out of her situation. As seconds ticked by she grew visibly more and more uncomfortable with Gwen’s tolerant but expectant silence.

Gwen waited. She’d played this game before, and she had patience in spades when it came to children.

Eventually M’lona gave in to guilt, burying her face in her knees, “Maybe…”

“Hmm?” Gwen prompted.

“I…I might’ve took something from your pocket maybe,” she hedged quietly, still talking into her tattered pants.

Gwen sighed sympathetically. “You need practice.”

One of her ears twitched and she peeked up from her legs.

Gwen gave her a patient smile. “I felt you reach in my pocket. But you did an admirable job of losing me in the crowd.”

M’lona pouted, lifting her head a little more. “B-but you found me?”

“I had help,” Gwen said cryptically. She offered a hand, “Are you hungry?”

The little miqo’te’s ears perked up immediately, and the audible growl of her stomach made Gwen’s heart ache again. “Let’s get something to eat, hm? It’ll be my treat.”

M’lona hesitated. “You’re…” She eyed Gwen again, trying to be suspicious but only looking hopeful. “You’re really not mad?”

Gwen shook her head, curling her fingers beckoningly. “Not at all.”

M’lona’s face lit up, the pure happiness of it making Gwen’s heart swell.

_Twelve, I have a weakness for children…_

M’lona scrabbled out of her hole and the stopped, ears drooping and expression suddenly uneasy.

Curious concern pulled at Gwen’s features. She lifted a hand to gingerly brush M’lona’s dirty bangs from her eyes. “Hey now, why this sad face all of a sudden? What’s wrong?”

M’lona looked down, toeing the ground and digging into a patchwork pocket on her shirt. She mumbled something and produced Gwen’s coinpurse, sheepishly offering it back.

Gwen made no move to take it. Instead she smiled kindly and patted her on the head. “So long as you promise to be more careful, you can keep it.”

M’lona stared, uncomprehending, “But how will you buy food without money?”

Gwen gave her a knowing look, “When did I say I didn’t have any money?“ She let M’lona spin her wheels on that for a moment then pat her head again, “A piece of advice: don’t keep all your gil in one pocket. Or coinpurse.”

Realization dawned on M’lona’s face as Gwen pushed herself to her feet. She dusted herself off and the held out her arms and gestured invitingly. An offer.

M’lona quickly shoved her new coinpurse back in her pocket before lifting her arms up, blue eyes bright.

Gwen scooped her up easily —the poor girl was so _thin_— and settled her on her hip before turning towards the near end of the alleyway. She hadn’t heard anything, yet she was still suspicious. “I know you’re there. What did I say about eavesdropping?”

There was a long pause before a chorus of four disappointed voices reached her ears, “Don’t get caught…”

Gwen couldn’t help a fond smile. “Come on, then,” she called. “Introduce yourselves, then we can all get something to eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you can't sleep so you _write all night instead_
> 
> EYYYY 4:20 (the original really was posted at 4:20am)
> 
> *passes out except not really*


	5. Status Ailment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I can't see anything

One moment the Coerthan thug was in front of her, hurling something at the ground. And the next Gwen was being assaulted by a cloud of thick, acrid smoke that coated her face and clung to her skin.

Strange heat bloomed in her eyes as Gwen coughed and blinked furiously, throwing her free hand over her mouth to try and filter the smoke. She backpedaled, barely able to discern the shape of her opponent somewhere ahead.

The heat in her eyes abruptly shifted into painful stinging, like a limb regaining feeling after falling asleep. She hissed through her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut against her better judgement. Tears welled and overflowed, cutting cool paths down her cheeks. Her backpedaling became staggering, her sword arm wavering as she tried to reflexively cough and cry the smoke out of her system.

Her foot caught on a jut of rock and she stumbled, snapping her eyes open and flailing her arms to save–

Gwen couldn’t see the ground. She couldn’t see _anything_. The world was flat, featureless black.

Her mind yelled that she was falling, she felt her balance shifting, but nothing seemed to be moving.

Something hard and rugged crashed into her temple, sending pain jolting through her skull and white specks flickering in the blackness of her vision. The same rugged surface hit her shoulder, then her hip.

The ground.

Thancred’s voice shouted, “Gwen!”

Dazed, she wasn’t sure if her furiously stinging eyes were open or closed. She blinked hard, and then again. They were open, squinted against the pain, and the world was utterly dark. She gormlessly wondered who turned off the sun.

Rushing footsteps behind her were abruptly interrupted by clashing metal, followed by a flurry of curses.

Her thoughts snapped into place again. Fighting. The duskwight. Smoke bomb. _Get up!_

A fresh surge of adrenaline muted her confusion and gave her heart the energy to leap into her throat. She realized her hands were empty, her saber knocked from her grasp when she hit the ground. She flailed one hand in the darkness, praying her weapon hadn’t skittered too far away, and furiously rubbed and scraped at her eyes with the other.

Her searching hand collided with a piece of metal wrapped in leather. She snatched her blade up, clutching the handle so tightly her fingers hurt.

She felt nothing on her face but skin and tears, smothering the hope that her blindness was caused by something she could wipe away.

Gwen’s mind was moving a malm a second, head pounding in time with her racing heart as she jumped to her feet. Her balance was tenuous without anything to orient it but the feeling of the ground under her feet. She made a frustrated sound as she steadied herself and turned to properly face the sounds of combat. Her arms snapped instinctively to the right position as she raised her saber, muscle memory proving to be perfectly functional without sight.

All of the rubbing and blinking had done nothing to alter the empty darkness in front of her eyes, and she couldn’t see even a vague hint of what was causing all the noise. She only knew she was holding her sword properly because of which end felt heaviest in her hand..

If she wanted to do more than stand there she’d have to make due with careful listening and what she could remember about her surroundings.

_Focus._

Gwen could hear two sets of feet shuffling, metal clashing and sounds of exertion and pain somewhere a handful of yalms ahead of her. Trying to create a mental image of the area proved more difficult than she’d hoped, owing to how little thought she’d spared her surroundings while she could see them. That error in judgment left her fumbling for details, the image that coalesced in her head coming out hazy and continuously changing as she second- and third-guessed details.

The footsteps and clashing metal stopped. There was a low groan.

Something hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Gwen stiffened. The fight was presumably done, but who was the winner?

Thancred’s voice called out in the sudden silence. “Gwen, are you alright?”

Relief was paltry and brief. Was he hurt? She still couldn’t see.

Gwen strained her eyes, trying to force some semblance of imagery out of the empty darkness. The effort made her head throb. “I’m– I– What happened?”

“A smoke bomb,” his voice was moving around and she belatedly turned her head to follow it, “A cheap trick if ever there was one.”

The smoke bomb. Normally they were meant only as a distraction, but this one had been augmented with alchemy. Not exactly unheard of, but she’d never experienced it before.

Her eyes had stopped stinging at some point, and now they were strangely warm and fuzzy. The skin all around her eyes was tight and irritated like an itchy sunburn. The darkness hadn’t lessened.

The fighting was done, at least, if Thancred’s casual tone and the general silence were anything to go by.

Without the distraction of combat, the daunting task of trying to deal with her blindness had her full attention.

Her voice was higher than normal when she spoke, “I-I can’t see! Are you alright?”

“Please, these ruffia–” Thancred cut off with a strange sound, “You can’t _see_?”

Gwen made a frustrated, unhelpful sound and told herself to calm down. It was difficult, as sudden blindness was proving quite distressing, and having no cure for such an ailment made it even moreso. She lifted her hands to try rubbing the darkness away again, her arms trembling with the sudden lack of adrenaline.

She paused halfway, rolling her wrist to angle her blade away and avoid any sort of tragic acc–

Metal hit stone and her saber trembled in her hand. She recoiled with an undignified squeak, jerking her blade away from whatever it had struck. She wobbled when she came to a stop, balance now a conscious struggle rather than simple instinct.

She pressed her mouth into a thin line, very aware of how ridiculous and skittish she looked. Embarrassment and mounting frustration had her shoulders hiking higher and her muscles tense.

Thancred made a concerned sound to the left of where she was facing. “Easy, dove,” he said, taking on a calming tone, “the fighting is done, you can relax.”

She responded with a self-conscious cringe and a grumble of annoyance, “I’ll hold off on that until I know what’s happened to my eyes, I think.”

His tone dried a little, “How terribly pragmatic.”

Thancred’s footsteps were unusually audible when he started moving towards her, and Gwen tried to use the sound to properly face him. She wondered if there was some truth to that ‘lose one sense and the others become stronger’ saying.

A beat later she considered that he was purposefully stepping more heavily because he didn’t want to startle her and get stabbed.

The sword in her hand didn’t give her the same sense of comfort and security it normally did, mostly due to how useless it felt. She could swing it, but she had no way to ensure she hit her target.

There were few things she hated more than feeling helpless, and she felt precisely that.

For what it was worth, it seemed Thancred didn’t intend to try and make light of her jumpiness.

“Twelve take that duskwight and his stupid…” she muttered, adjusting her feet and her balance.

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Thancred’s voice was right in front of her, his footsteps coming to a halt. “But, given he’s dead, there’s not much vengeance to extract. Tell me what you can, or can’t, see.”

She made a vague, frustrated gesture with her arms, “Nothing, just darkness. It was something in that smoke bomb.”

Hands touched her arms and the sudden contact sent a jolt of surprise through her. “An alchemical affliction, then.” Thancred’s voice was distinctly unhappy. “Mayhap they weren’t so run-of-the-mill after all.”

Gwen left her sword at her side and carefully raised her free hand again, bumping his arm along the way. Her frown deepened.

“Hm…” He was quiet for a moment, probably watching her rub and scratch at her eyes, “And aside from your vision? Are you well?”

“My eyes are itching like mad,” she said. Frustration with her situation and anger at that bloody thug and his alchemical bomb was starting to eclipse her concern about her blindness. It also brought her headache more sharply into focus. “And my head hurts.”

Thancred hummed, hands tightening on her arms. “That tends to happen when one is so forcefully acquainted with the ground.”

Gwen pouted.

His hands disappeared. One was suddenly on hers. Her heart twitched again. “No more of that, hm? The last thing you need is to make it worse,” he said, stopping her effort to scratch the annoying itch.

She made a noncommittal sound in reply. It hadn’t been helping too much, anyway.

His other touched her sword hand, fingers shifting around and sliding under hers to release her grip. “And, not that I don’t have the utmost faith in you, dove, but I think it best you leave the sword waving to me for the time being. I’d like my remaining eye to stay where it is, if it’s all the same to you.”

Gwen huffed, lifting her chin a little to frown towards his face. She was in no mood for teasing.

But, fretting and bristles aside, he wasn’t wrong. Blindly waving her sword around (literally) made her a danger to herself and him as much as anything else. Trying to sheathe it herself was probably risky, too.

Gwen was keenly aware of the moment Thancred’s hands, and her sword, disappeared.

All of a sudden she was left relying entirely on her hearing again.

Anxiety coiled sharply around her chest, tightening further when she flexed her empty fingers. Her thoughts tangled together, knotting around sharp uneasiness and frustration.

The stability of Thancred’s touch had been more grounding than she’d realized, and without it she felt acutely, uncomfortably isolated.

Which was ridiculous. She knew it was. She _knew_ that. Thancred was right there, less than a fulm in front of her face…give or take a few ilms. She was anything but alone.

But she couldn’t _see_ that, and it had far more of an effect on her than she thought it would.

She moved her eyes left and right, straining despite the way it aggravated her headache. Nothing but darkness.

Thancred was still there. There was no way in all seven hells he’d leave her stumbling around on her own. He’d protect her if any threats decided to rear their ugly heads, and he wouldn’t begrudge her for it, either.

Thinking about it, he probably wouldn’t get more than a fulm away from her until she could see again, no matter how long that might take. The thought gave her a bit of relief, a thread of ease weaving through and loosening the knots in her head.

Gwen cautiously reached out with both hands, listening to the ambiance of nature and Thancred’s breathing. Her fingers collided with him mere seconds later, and the little surge of surprise at the sudden impact was smothered with a wave of relief. She curled her fingers into his shirt, immediately regaining that sense of stability she’d lost.

When her exhale rushed out of her she realized she’d been holding her breath.

“Worried I’d try to sneak away? You wound me, dove,” Thancred teased, nudging her arm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The red that came to her cheeks had more to do with exasperation and self-consciousness than anything else. “No, no, I was just–”

Gwen felt a tug at her belt and stiffened. She heard the scrape and click of a sheathing blade, and then a familiar weight was hanging off her hip. She huffed.

Twelve she was jumpy.

Being a little thrown was one thing, but feeling so overwhelmed? Surely the Warrior of Light could muddle through like she always did?

To be fair losing one of her senses, specifically the one she most relied on, was a perfectly reasonable excuse to throw composure to the wind for a little while. And to be an unhelpful mess, besides.

.She wondered how long she could be stuck like this, aware that inflicted ailments could last anywhere from minutes to bells to days. _Twelve, please not **days**._

Thancred’s hands rested on hers and squeezed.

“I hate this,” she said, as though it weren’t apparent.

He hummed an agreement.

“Everything is so _off_,” she went on, trying again to will her sight back. “I know you’re right there, but I can’t see you and it’s so–”

“Aggravating? Disorienting? Miserable?” he suggested.

Gwen shuffled his shirt between her fingers, absorbing the warmth of his hands, “To put it simply.”

Dirt and gravel crunched near her feet and one of his hands disappeared. He mumbled, “Head.”

Head?

His missing hand rested gently on the side of her head.

The warning hadn’t quite hit the mark, but the effort and consideration behind it stirred a warm, fond feeling. The coils around her chest loosened a little.

Thancred tilted her head back to better examine her eyes and Gwen obliged without protest. She concentrated on blinking less.

He made a thoughtful sound, tilting her head a little to one side. Despite the warmth of the sun on her face she didn’t need to squint or shade her eyes. Light seemed to hold no sway over her when she couldn’t see it.

Thancred abruptly sighed, relieved, and his breath feathered over her face. “For a bit of good news, your eyes don’t appear damaged. I should think this blindness isn’t permanent.”

Gwen stiffened. Permanent?

Of course that was a possibility. Medicine and healing magic had their limits.

Her panicky thoughts hadn’t even gotten that far, too hamstrung with anxiety to look at anything past that exact moment.

She made a strangled sound.

“_Not_ permanent, I said,” he repeated, drumming his fingers on her head. “Y’shtola will have you back in proper Eikon-slaying, griffin-wrangling condition in no time, we need only return to Mor Dhona.”

Gwen decided against informing him of her short-sighted thought process. Instead she took the reassurance she was offered and smiled a little, “I wonder what she’ll have to say about how it happened.”

“You should brace for some chastisement about recklessness, I think.” One finger ghosted over the place her headache had been emanating from, “And she’ll get rid of this, too.”

Gwen wondered if Y’shtola would still get that signature unamused expression of hers if the red mage specified that she’d tripped and hit her head _after _she’d been blinded.

Thancred’s chest pressed more firmly against her hands, and a nudge of his hand angled her head down slightly.

Gwen made a confused noise.

Thancred’s beard tickled the bridge of her nose half a second before his lips pressed against her forehead, gentle and sweet.

“I think I lost a year off my life when you said you couldn’t see,” Thancred mumbled fondly against her skin. “Terribly rude of you, you know.”

Gwen giggled, the tender gesture leaving her a little weak-kneed. She closed her eyes, the coils around her chest vanishing altogether, replaced with easy affection and the sense of security that had vanished when her sight did.

She grinned. “My deepest apologies.”

He lingered there and inhaled, pausing to hold that breath for several seconds before breathing a relieved sigh. “Hm. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were being insincere.”

Gwen wondered how worried he’d been, and how much her distress had gotten to him. He’d sounded concerned but composed, but he’d always been better at affecting calm he didn’t feel, particularly in his voice. He was also better at keeping a cool head under fire, but that didn’t always hold true when it came to those he cared for.

Gwen’s next exhale caused her to shrink an ilm, the ramrod set of her back finally loosening. The rest of her quickly followed suit.

She felt Thancred smile. “Feeling a little better, I see.” He planted another kiss on her forehead before leaning away,

Gwen hummed an affirmation, habitually lifting a hand to fiddle with her bangs. “Sorry for losing my head for a moment.”

He chuckled, “Apologizing for losing your composure when you were _rendered blind_. Yes, I’d say you’re feeling yourself again.”

Gwen could hear his teasing smile and conjure a perfect image of it in her mind’s eye. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Fear not, dove,” he continued blithely. “I shan’t tell a soul.”

He was smiling wider. Gwen could _hear _it. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes a little more.

“I’m sure I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that,” he quipped, still audibly smiling.

“Of course not,” she scoffed. “Now, if you’re done teasing–”

“For the moment, I suppose.”

“–I’d like to be able to see again. Let’s get back to the Rising Stones?”

“A wonderful idea.” Thancred’s hand left her head, his fingers lighting on a thin chain around her neck a moment later. “But, in the interest of arriving some time before the season is out,” he tugged something free from her shirt and directed her hand to it, pressing a familiar metal cylinder into her palm, “what say we put your bird to work?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D This was rewritten like 5 times and got less salty every time lol
> 
> The prompt was “I can’t see anything!” and so I went with the Blind status effect. Have fun with the projection, Gwen /patpat
> 
> I was blindfolded for an escape room a while back and I was fucking useless. 0/10. If I was actually blind I’d probably die reaaaal quick.
> 
> When Gwen can see again she's very "THE WORLD IS BRIGHT AF"


	6. "Well one of us is going to have to change."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the first visit to Eulmore in ShB.

Gwen blinked, then stared hard at Alphinaud. 

She blinked again, as though that would change what she was seeing. 

Dulia-Chai’s ecstatic tittering was lost between Gwen’s sputtering mind and the cacophonous music echoing around The Canopy.

Alphinaud was… He was wearing her clothes? Or rather, something suspiciously, almost off-puttingly similar. 

She gawked at his outfit for another long moment before looking around to check what sort of clothing the multitude of patrons around them were wearing, just to make sure she wasn't jumping to any ludicrous conclusions.

She found endless amounts of long, heavy dresses, frills, lace, silk, fur, cravats, muffs, and other fashionable but impractical styles and items. Nothing even remotely like what she, and now Alphinaud, too, were wearing. Even the guards' armor was of an entirely different style and design.

Alphinaud's gambison was almost an exact copy of hers –he even had a scarf!– while he’d taken a few creative liberties with his gloves and boots, and outfitted himself with a black holster that secured his codex to his hip in a style similar to how Gwen wore her sword. The largest, almost _only, _difference Gwen could find were the colors, as he didn't share her and his sister's preference for red, gunmetal and brass. His gambison and gloves were dyed with differing shades of dark blues and black, while his pants and boots were bright, pristine white with silvery-steel accents that matched the polished pauldron on his left shoulder and the guards on his wrists. 

Gwen found herself questioning the wisdom of white boots. Her white scarf got dirty terribly easily, even when she had it all knotted up about her neck.

Then again, with any luck, Alphinaud wouldn’t be throwing himself headfirst into situations half as dangerous (and messy) as the ones she regularly faced. And he tended to keep at-range anyway.

Alphinaud’s confident expression dimmed with unmistakable embarrassment under Gwen’s incredulous gaze. He quickly turned his attention to the happy mistress who’d bounded from her seat, clapping her hands delightedly.

“I trust it pleases you, then?” He offered with a smile and a lavish bow.

“Ohh, yes, yes~!” Dulia squealed, giving Alphinaud a most adoring look that was distinctly reminiscent of an overjoyed grandmother. Or someone who’d negotiated their puppy into a tiny, cute outfit. 

Noticing Gwen’s dumbstruck expression and the way she was still staring at her friend’s clothes, Dulia fanned a hand at the befuddled hy–ah, _hume _to get her attention. She grinned, somehow affectionate and conspiratorial at the same time, “Oh-ho! It looks familiar, does it not?”

Gwen shoved down knee-jerk jokes, the faint whispers of Fray's dry remarks tickling in the back of her mind, and the grind of general irritation and distaste with her surroundings. “Ah, it does look vaguely familiar, yes,” she said as jokingly as she could manage.

Judging by Dulia’s simper and satisfied nod, Gwen had succeeded in sounding appropriately surprised and amused. “Well, I thought your clothes were so darling in concept--so unique! A breath of fresh air, I think! And with a few touches here and there,” she waved a hand vaguely to indicate the different style of gloves, “it’s become positively dashing!“

“Thus you see why I took her as my assistant. Style and composition come to her naturally,” Alphinaud said immediately, smooth and confident again. He shot her a sideways look, “And imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, is it not?”

Gwen exhaled sharply through her nose and tried not to let the smile curling her mouth turn into a smirk.

Alphinaud relaxed a little, relieved. He gave her a half-smile, twitched his shoulders in a shrug and dipped his chin slightly, _‘Sorry. It wasn’t my idea.’_

Gwen mimicked the shrug and smiled. _‘It’s alright.’_

She wasn’t entirely sure the noblewoman –was she a noblewoman? Sort of?– had heard the veiled apology, or any of what he had said at all. Instead, Dulia’s attention seemed to be squarely focused on Gwen's earrings and the multitude of bracelets and bangles all about her arms.

“Oh of course, of course,” Dulia said suddenly. Apparently she’d heard him. The woman’s gaze wandered briefly, thoughtfully, as she tapped a manicured finger on her chin. Suddenly she looked back at Alphinaud with wide grin, “Shall we pick out some jewelry next?”

Gwen looked at Alphinaud, her expression halfway to a grimace. While the image of him donning a ‘fashionable’ –and judging by the styles she’d seen since entering Eulmore, it was closer to _cumbersome_– amount of accessories was somewhat entertaining, the idea of him having to suffer through almost a half-dozen new piercings in his pointed ears was not.

Alphinaud cleared his throat, ever the unflappable diplomat. “But of course. Whatever you require.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played the benchmark but didn’t pay close attention to his clothes lol
> 
> Then he walked out and I was like WHAT? WHAAAAT? And I couldn’t not write it lol


	7. Manderville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to an ask to share one of Gwen's journal entries about an adventure she went on.

_The writing is cramped and messy, occasionally drifting from the lines on the page. A few sketches are squeezed in here and there, not much better than the scrawl of handwriting. Some words and sentences are scratched out, a few so scribbled on so thoroughly the words beneath are illegible._

**2nd Lightsday, 6th Astral Moon, Seventh Umbral Era**

Elle contacted me today and asked me to hurry to Costa del Sol. She thinks she’s found a promising lead on the Lapis Maiden.

I have this weird sense–like a knee aching before a storm? I can’t put my finger on what it is, exactly. I suppose I’ll leave my journal here. Y’shtola and Papalymo only just gave me this cover, ther’es no need to go testing it yet.

I’m doing my best to be prepared for anything, I suppose.

**2nd Firesday, 6th Astral Moon, Seventh Umbral Era**

Inspector Briarden, Hildebran and Nashu all…just sort of showed up.

I feel that’s all I really need write to best sum up what happened. There’s no better explanation than it was an ‘investigation’ (after a fashion) with Hildebrand.

The man is so strange. He’s nice enough, but I just…can’t understand. I mean strange in a good way. I like him. He very earnest and good hearted. And patient? I think. I’m going to call it patience. 

Thancred claimed to be born under an auspicious star. I swear Hildibrand must’ve been born under a dozen.

Briarden still had a little mark on his forehead from that card. I didn’t ask him about it but I think he caught me looking once. Or twice.

Stop staring at people, Gwen. At least don’t make it obvious.

The high points, I suppose…

I met with Elle then we went to speak with Guguremu, father of the Lapis Maiden and his hired muscle. He’d chosen ‘the best’ of the Brass Blades of…Gerbera, I think he said. And by ‘best’, I believe he meant the ones with the most swagger and the highest pricetag.

Then Briarden, and then Hildibrand and Nashu just…arrived. Each in their own way.

Hildibrand startled Briardan so bad the Inspector knocked him out with a fish. i’m not even exaggerating. 

At least, I think he hit him because he was startled. He may have done it simply because he felt like it.

Hildi’s hair smelled like fish for the rest of the day.

_No one _I tell this to is going to believe any of it, and it’s the _most frustrating thing in the world._

So much happened so quickly and it all made so little _sense_. What next? It was a wild chocobo chase from start to finish.

There was a box of coconuts and bombs, and I don’t even rightly remember why it was there or how we arrived at it. <strike>Coco-bombs?</strike> They weren’t even from the thief! Nashu is…very similar to Hildibrand in many regards.

Inspector Briarden is impressively…resilient? The whole box exploded right in his face and he was barely worse for wear. Is that resilience? Or divine favor? He’s… something. 

Who even… A _fish_. There were all manner of other things he could have grabbed that were more suitable for a weapon. Though they would have done more damage, surely. I’m really having trouble getting over that, honestly.

Briarden’s as ridiculous as Hildibrand. 

I should probably say something about the Inspector’s attitude towards Hildibrand and Nashu, but <strike>they get to me sometimes, too I’m at a loss as to how they how do they even manage to</strike> I can’t fully fault him for the skepticism, though he could do with a bit more patience. I understand where it’s coming from, to a degree. 

No, I should still say something. Hildibrand is eccentric but he’s trying to do the right thing..

Now that I’m thinking on it…Sometimes the comments people make seem to go utterly over his head. Sometimes he replies like he didn’t realize he was being teased or insulted, sometimes he’s outright silly about the whole thing. But, but sometimes he says something so very sharp and on the nose it’s just… astounding? Astounding. His responses are never what I expect.

It makes me wonder if anything actually goes over his head or if he simply ignores it…? 

Arabella seemed happy, and _safe_, in the end, which is important She’s very sweet. Vannes is…a piece of work, but nice enough. I’ve certainly met worse.

Even with all the ups and downs Hildibrand stayed in high spirits. He <strike>isn’t affected by any of it</strike> just lets any and all negativity slide right off him like he doesn’t even hear it and goes on as gallant? and determined as ever. I should learn to do that. Everything’s easier when I keep my head up.

I just can’t _fathom_ what’s going on in that head.

_How_, by all that is holy, did he _fit in that dress_???? Arabella isn’t remotely close to his size!!

_Why _is that one of the moments sticking so firmly in my head.

Probably because it’s the funnies thing I’ve seen in ages. Oh gods, I’m laughing just thinking about it. 

Could the thief be a Sylph? They change appearance fairly easily. What would a Sylph want with the Treaty-Blade though? Hm.

<strike>Note to self – Send a letter to Frixio and ask for scalebombs. Emphasize that the box be marked FRAGILE, a hundred times over even</strike> Avoid that imminent catastrophe and get them yourself…

If the thief isn’t a sylph, will scalebombs still affect them? They’d be a good deterrent, at least.

Should I introduce Hildibrand and Nashu to the Scions? 

Think on it. That would be… a lot to handle. Not bad? But a lot.

Actually maybe don’t.

I’ll write more later… I need a drink and a nap.


	8. Digging your fingers into fresh dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to the prompt "digging your fingers into fresh dirt"

Gwen crouched in the shadow of a tall tree, digging her hands down into duff and dirt. She has a trowel but doesn’t bother to use it, as the dirt is loose and soft, still wet from the rain a few days prior. Her hands worked well enough, and there was nothing pointy or unpleasant she needed to worry about grabbing. The air fills with the smell of wet earth, damp leaves and a hind of decay as she scoops out a fist-sized hole, pushing the mound of upturned dirt and leaves to one side.

She stops midway into her bag and frowns at her dirtied hands before clapping them together and brushing them off on one another. Her nails are filthy, each tipped with a band dark brown. Perhaps she should have used the trowel.

When her hands are clean enough she digs into her satchel for seeds, saving attempts to pick out the dirt from beneath her nails for later. Its tempting to grab some of the trillium bulbs waiting under all the pouches and satchels, as she’s of the little flowers. They’re beautiful and grow all over the Bramble Patch in veritable blankets of white flowers… that are completely inedible.

Gwen pouts to herself and shuffles through the little pouches instead. She can plant the flowers later, preferably somewhere not equally suited to growing food. Fufucha really didn’t need to give her entire bags of seeds. The head of the botanist’s guild was apparently trying to lend a hand and make Gwen’s life a little easier, knowing she couldn’t give, and Gwen wouldn’t have accepted, other forms of charity. Except for some of Yannie’s cooking maybe, or a few of her recipes.

While Gwen can appreciate the thought behind the gesture, she still feels a little bad for accepting them. The Greatloam Growery only had so many supplies and were still recovering from the Calamity, same as everyone else. She decides to plant some of them around the wood next time she went hunting for mushrooms and nuts or culling quickweed, then sneak the rest back into their stockpiles..

Gwen frees a packet with a tag painted with a green oval dotted with light green circles: buffalo beans. Not the most flavorful food, but bountiful, reliable and nutritious. She presses a few seeds into the soft earth before tucking the packet away and filling the hole in, loosely packing the soil down overtop of them.

Hopefully there will be something to come back to in the summer.


	9. "What are you doing in my bed?" NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A <s>long overdue</s> response to the prompt/ask I received on tumblr: "What are you doing in my bed?" :B
> 
> My first attempt at PWP
> 
> Set... Eh, idk, sometime pre 4.4
> 
> CW: sex!

Gwen didn’t quite manage to get through the Stones uninterrupted, caught for a few minutes by Hoary and Coultenet and then again by Ephemie with a few requests --“Not urgent, of course. But soon, if you have the time?”-- for the kitchens.

When Gwen stepped into the hall that led to the senior Archons’ rooms she was relieved to find it deserted. It had been a long day, and only partially because she’d been up and about since the sun had started to rise.

She let her shoulders slump tiredly now that there was no one around to see, absently stretching her neck as she trudged down the hall to her door. 

Thinking over the faces she’d passed, she realized she hadn’t seen a familiar one-eyed rogue amongst the crowd in the Seventh Heaven or the Stones. She didn’t think Thancred was out on an assignment, but she wasn’t entirely sure. His missions tended to be kept secret thanks to his line of work, and even the renowned Warrior of Light rarely got to know anything about them. He would placate her with loose timeframes when he could, so she wouldn’t be on pins and needles every night, but that was usually all he was able to share. 

She would think more about his whereabouts and all that after she’d rested for a bit...or all night, given that it was growing late...

Gwen shouldered her door open and stepped into her dark, wonderfully quiet room, breathing a pleased sigh as she closed out the outside world. She immediately set about unfastening the various buckles and clasps on her outfit, eager to trade her fitted gambison and undershirt for looser, lighter clothes that were made for comfort rather than protection. She made her way towards her wardrobe without turning on the light, more preoccupied with buckles than her path of travel. Her room was a mess, but it was _her _mess, and her knowledge of her own disorganization allowed her to navigate it all in the--

Her foot caught on something and she stumbled, nearly falling on her face. 

Gwen just barely stabilized herself and turned to pout at the suspect spot on the floor, squinting in an effort to make her eyes more quickly adjust to the darkness and the dim light seeping under her door. She’d always managed to keep her mess to the fringes of her room, or at least clear of the entryway, which meant she should have been safe to cross her room without running into or stumbling on anything.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she was able to discern more details about the offending obstacle, eventually realizing it was… Pants?

She leaned down a little, cocking her head to one side.

Yes, a pair of pants.

While the floor did tend to be where her discarded clothing wound up, even the darkness wasn’t enough to disguise the fact that the obtrusive pants _weren’t _hers. Whose were they, then? And why were they in her room?

Were they meant to be a gift, perhaps? They probably wouldn't be on the floor if that were the case, nor would they look as though they’d already been worn.

As she started to lift her head, Gwen found a few long belts, straps and a pair of boots strewn nearby.

So not just strange pants, it seemed. Her mouth pulled to one side in a curious pout.

Next came a pair of long, dark gloves, followed by a white, sleeveless shirt and a strip of black cloth. The veritable trail of clothing led straight to her bed, where it seemed someone had already made themselves comfortable.

Gwen blinked at them a few times, processing the discarded clothes and what little of the intruder was poking out from under the sheets.

Recognition clicked into place like a flipped switch.

Gwen crept over to her bed, curiosity and amusement curling her mouth into a wide grin. She reached a hand out, sliding her fingers through pale hair, “Thancred?”

Thancred twitched, mumbled nonsensically, and then lifted his head. He squinted at her for a long moment before a lazy smile spread across his mouth. “Dove?” The word sounded a little loose on his tongue. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Quite,” she replied sarcastically, laughter tickling the edges of her voice. “What are you doing in my bed?”

One moment she was standing there, smiling at him; the next he’d wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her down beside him. Sometimes Gwen forgot how fast he could move.

Her squeal of surprise was cut short when his mouth sealed over hers, eager and a little sloppy. He kissed her like they hadn’t seen one another in weeks rather than bells, clutching her close as if she’d slip away otherwise.

Her head was swimming pleasantly when he pulled away and she panted for breath, face flushed under the cover of darkness. Thancred brushed his nose against hers, “Mmm, I was hoping I’d see you tonight.”

The scent of alcohol tickled her nose and Gwen murmured, slightly triumphant like she’d solved a mystery, “You’re drunk.”

“Tipsy,” he corrected, not _quite _slurring, and kissed her again. She could taste a hint of liquor on his tongue, but his movements were smooth enough to confirm he wasn’t fully in his cups.

Gwen’s thoughts lagged and fell out of focus, the slide of his lips against hers and the light scratch of stubble on her skin consuming her attention. One kiss slipped into another, clumsy affection growing languid and heated until there were pleasurable little tingles dancing along her skin. 

She molded herself against him, threading her fingers through his hair while her other hand wandered along his bare shoulders. It was _unfair _that he could be so seductive even when half-asleep and tipsy, and doubly so that he could so easily inspire such a capricious change of mind with just a kiss.

When Thancred pulled away to mouth along her jaw Gwen huffed playfully, “I was planning to go to bed, you know.”

“You’re in bed,” he replied simply.

She laughed and rolled her eyes, “I meant _sleep_.”

“Of course...later,” he replied, dark and promising despite the slight slur. He ghosted his lips across hers, teasing and tempting until she lifted her mouth to his.

She half-wanted to refuse, but the way he held her, the way each press of his lips burned away a little more of her weariness, she couldn’t help leaning into him. Her hand drifted over his back, feeling bare skin and the shift of his muscles in the dark. He was certainly eager, which was always enticing in its own way. 

Desire sparked in her veins, her head growing light as his tongue swirled around hers. She forgot about her weariness and thoughts of sleep for a moment, then pushed them aside entirely. It had been a long day, but there were better ways to end it than merely dropping into bed and going to sleep.

Thancred’s hands shifted to her shoulders, pressing gently as he leaned into her in an effort to tip her onto her back. His mouth slowed against hers, distracted words slipping out between kisses, “What was that you said about whose room?” 

She acquiesced, giggling shyly when he settled over her and began kissing his way across her jaw and down her neck. “_You _are in _mine_.” 

His hands were quick to find and unfasten the last of the buckles and buttons that she hadn’t gotten to. “Am I?” He sounded genuinely confused. His hands dipped beneath her layers, warm and rough as they slid over her skin and pushed her shirt higher and higher. 

A tease about how just how ‘tipsy’ he really was if he didn’t even know whose room he was in got caught in her throat when his hand found her breast, her train of thought jumbling up and stalling. Thancred smirked at the reaction and tugged her breastband down with one sharp motion, eager fingers caressing newly exposed flesh.

She couldn’t help shivering and curving into the touch, breathing a pleased sigh that she knew would only encourage him. He might have been drunk, but he could still touch her just the right way.

He was right. Sleep could wait.

Thancred made a sound in the back of his throat, scraping his teeth along her neck. “Why would I sleep in your room if you weren’t there?” he mumbled.

“Hoping for this, maybe,” Gwen replied, raking her nails through his hair. She’d almost forgotten they were bantering about that. “Or you knew I’d be tired.”

He ducked his head, grazing his teeth over her nipple; he hummed when she gasped.

“Funny,” Thancred replied with a broad grin, free hand wedging beneath her to undo her breastband and toss it away. 

“Wha-_aaah_\--” His lips closed around her nipple and her thoughts fell apart. The rasp of his beard and the slide of his tongue sent pleasure crawling across her skin in slow, tingly bursts, her fingers curling more tightly in his hair. She did her best to keep her mouth closed over the soft sounds that tried to escape, partially out of habit and partially wanting to tease him a little.

He slid his hands beneath her as he lifted his his head, raking his nails lightly down the length of her back and leaving thin lines of fire that made her arch into him. “You don’t sound the least bit tired.” Thancred wore his smugness far too well as he turned his attention to fully ridding her of her gambison and undershirt. 

Gwen wanted to make some sort of witty retort, but she was rather distracted by the press of cool sheets against her bare back and his knee nudging between her legs. She let them part, finding it was like an indulgence to be able to surrender rather than having to be in control. Even so, it felt selfish to just take. She replied to his quip with a soft giggle, unsure how to best respond or mirror his excitement, trailing her hands across his shoulders and down his arms while she tried to think.

_Not _thinking and just acting would probably be a good start.

Thancred paused, considering the sound of her voice and her hesitant touch. “Dove.” He leaned up and pressed flush against her, his bare skin warm against hers, and nudged her nose with his. “Are you alright?” All the heat and smugness was suddenly replaced with genuine concern despite the hardness that was pressed against her thigh.

“I’m fine,” Gwen assured, carding her fingers through his hair and tipping her forehead against his. “I was just realizing it’s… nice to not be in control all the time. To go along and enjoy the ride.”

He hummed and she could feel him smile against her lips, one hand stroking up and down her side. 

“I just got a little,” she curled her fingers and nudged his nose with hers, “caught up thinking about how to reciprocate.”

“Not thinking so much is a good start,” he replied with a grin. “I can attest it’s worked wonders in the past.”

She huffed a laugh and let her hand drift down his back, “Yeah, well…”

“And I think ‘enjoying the ride’ is reciprocation enough.”

“Even though you’re the one doing all the work?” she asked, twirling his hair around her fingers.

“This time. Next time we can switch,” he replied kissing the tip of her nose. “But for now,” his voice lowered and softened, the timbre of it making her tremble, “I intend to indulge myself in you and relish every wonderful sound you make. I’ll write your rapture with my tongue and drink you in as you surrender to bliss.”

_How _could he just _say _that with a _straight face_\--

Gwen wheezed and pressed back into the pillow to try and stem the excited, desperate shiver that shot up her back. Her mouth was suddenly bone dry, her face and neck aflame.

“Is that alright?” Thancred purred against the corner of her mouth. 

“I-I mean,” she coughed lightly, “h-heh, if you want.”

Thancred swallowed a small chuckle and kissed her, slow and intoxicating. Gwen was more than happy to let her thoughts slip away again, focusing instead on his gentle weight and the taste of his lips. “As a matter of fact,” he murmured against her mouth, tugging skillfully at her belt, “I do,” he dipped beneath her waistband and his fingers brushed along her smallclothes, pressing just enough to make her jerk and gasp, “_want_.”

Gwen somehow felt taut and slack all at once, anticipation pulling certain muscles tight while pleasure eased and softened others, willing beneath his confident hands and his wanting mouth as he guided their molten kiss. Her heart was racing, fondness tickling in her chest and the ache in the pit of her stomach growing heavier with his heated reassurances and bravado.

The next teasing graze of his fingers against her smalls coaxed an encouraging sound from her throat, her nails digging lightly into his shoulders and scraping across his scalp.

“Hmmm,” he hummed teasingly. He pressed a little more firmly on the next stroke, waiting for her shudder and gasp to pass before continuing, “Seems you’re not overthinking _too _much.”

Gwen leaned up to trace the shell of his ear with her mouth. “Are you just going to tease me,” she asked breathily, “or make good on what you said about indulging?” 

Thancred groaned in reply, lingering to enjoy the feeling of her lips and breath. “I’m a man of my word, dove,” he murmured, and drew back to hook his fingers in her waistband. Excitement tightened along her back, the effervescent energy bubbling under her skin was nearly enough to make her tremble.

She gave as coy a smile as she could while lifting her hips. With one sharp tug he slid her pants and smalls down her thighs, ducking down to ghost his lips over her legs as he finally freed her from the last of her clothing. His gaze was like a burning caress as it drifted back up the line of her body to her face, so intense that she could only stand to meet it for a moment before her gaze skittered abashedly aside.

Gwen exhaled shakily as he nipped and licked his way towards the crux of her thighs, every touch of his mouth leaving a little tingle of warmth that made her tremble. She slid one hand into his hair again, twisting pale strands around her fingers and trailing her nails along his scalp as he shrugged her legs over his shoulders. Anticipation and excitement had her heart fluttering, every splash of his breath against her inner thighs making her own catch in her throat.

Thancred smoothed his hands over her skin as he worried a choice spot between his teeth, gripping her hips and holding her in place when he suddenly bit down hard enough to mark. 

Gwen made a startled sound somewhere between a moan and a gasp, tensing at the sharp sting of his teeth, tightening her grip on his hair. She felt him groan at that, the low sound sinking into her skin and setting her nerves alight as he tried to muffle himself.

“Hells with teasing,” Thancred muttered like a curse, her thigh aching sweetly where he’d bruised it.

Thank the go--

He pressed his mouth to her, his tongue eagerly sliding between her lips and tasting the way she ached for him. 

Gwen melted, shuddering under the wonderful feeling that washed through her and scattered her thoughts like sand. She bit her lip over the sounds rising in her throat, almost overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth and the delicious sparks and shocks that hummed through her as he lapped at her.

He teased her despite his muttering, his tongue dancing quickly and lightly around where she wanted him until she squirmed needily under his hands and her legs tightened against his back. He finally rolled his tongue across her clit, savoring the way he stole her breath before doing it again and again. She shuddered and jerked at each stroke and flick, broken sounds starting to slip out despite her efforts to hold them back. His fingers worked against her hips, tensing and easing in time with the swirl of his tongue and holding her steady as she writhed under his attentions.

Her back arched when he sucked at her clit, her hand tightening in his hair and the other twisting in the bedsheets. He made a gratifying sound, a low hum that had her trembling all the way down to her toes. 

She panted, “Gods…” and felt him smile. His mouth moved, tongue tracing languid shapes before dipping into her. She whined when it withdrew, wandering and circling as his hands worked against her hips, the strain in his grip suggesting he was teasing himself as much as her. 

Gwen tugged his hair and shifted her hips to better meet his mouth, quickly growing desperate. “Thancred, _please_…” 

He made another wonderful sound, shivering and tensing under her legs. He dragged her closer to delve as deeply as he could with his tongue. Her mind went hazy, everything out of focus except for the feeling of his hands, his mouth and the hungry slide and curl of his tongue. She forgot about stifling herself, moans and soft pleas falling from her lips as she rocked into his mouth as much as his grip would allow. Tugging his hair earned more sweet sounds and little digs from his fingertips as he clutched her tighter, the way he held her down both grounding and arousing.

Thancred’s hands moved, one pressing firmly to her navel while the other dragged over her hip and between her legs to join his mouth. His tongue withdrew, replaced with a splash of hot breath and the press of his finger. Gwen shivered, legs tensing against his back as he circled her entrance.

His finger sank into her, sending heady, molten pleasure crawling up her spine and coiling between her legs. She made a sound of relief she would surely have been embarrassed by if she could spare it a thought, but the slow drive of his finger and his mouth molding around her clit again ensured she was thoroughly distracted. 

His tongue stroked and circled in time with the thrust of his finger, building a steady rhythm that left her clutching the sheets and struggling for breath. He added a second finger, a hum of approval vibrating through her at the change in her voice and the eager roll of her hips. Sparks danced in her veins as he moved faster, fingers and tongue working in tandem to drive her to the edge.

Thancred curled his fingers, pressing and rubbing just right while his tongue dragged--

The edges of her vision went white, the world slipping out of focus as her body sang under the sudden rush of release. She arched off the bed with a high keening sound, squeezing her eyes shut and struggling to remember not to pull on his hair as she jerked and shuddered.

His mouth and fingers didn’t stop, instead slowing gradually and drawing out the last ripples of pleasure. As she finally calmed and sagged, body humming and tingling with satisfaction, he withdrew and eased her legs from his shoulders. Every touch of his hands and brush of his hair sent little shocks of electricity dancing across her skin that sparked new shivers and surges of goosebumps. He kissed the hollow of her hip, smoothing his hands over her waist as he sat up and gave her a sultry smile. 

Gwen freed her hand from his hair, fingers sliding over his cheek and the line of his jaw before dropping listlessly to the bed. She murmured an apology for pulling too hard, freeing her other hand from the sheets to push her bangs away from where they were beginning to stick to her forehead.

Thancred chuckled, brushing his nose back and forth against her hip before moving up, trailing kisses here and there on the way to her mouth. “I didn’t mind,” he muttered as he reached her lips, “I was too busy enjoying the view.”

“Relishing and indulging and all that?” Gwen panted, only half-sensically. She swallowed his answering chuckle and groaned at the taste of herself on his tongue, a new needy ache pulsing slowly between her legs. Much as she loved his mouth and hands, they didn’t compare to _him_.

She smoothed her hands down his chest, feeling the shape of hard muscles under warm, scarred skin that jumped and trembled under her touch. His tongue grazed her lips as he licked his own, his breaths coming a little quicker when she languidly hooked her still-trembling leg around his and her fingertips traced scars she’d long memorized. 

Gwen leaned up and grazed her teeth over his lower lip, pressing lightly with her nails as she drew her hands back up. The little groan and stutter in his breath as his mouth chased hers fed that growing ache, tired muscles quivering and skin prickling eagerly. 

Thancred huffed playfully against the corner of her mouth when she refused to be caught for a kiss and leaned away, raking a hand through his hair to push it out of his face. She shivered anew at the chill that replaced the warm press of his skin as he sat back out of her reach and trailed his fingers down her body. She whined softly and he replied with a sly hum, sliding a hand under her rear and giving her a little push. He nodded to one side to indicate his intent, watching her face with burning, half-lidded eyes.

Gwen rolled onto her stomach, her head still not quite clear. “I thought you’d want to be able to see me,” she murmured.

Thancred leaned over her, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of her shoulder. He rocked his hips to her backside so she could feel his length, hard and straining against his smallclothes, and in an instant she was flushed all over again.

“Oh, I’ll see you,” he promised with a throaty laugh. “But I’ll be better able to _feel _you like this.” He peppered kisses along her shoulder and smiled against her skin, “By the way, what was that you said about being tired?”

Gwen sputtered around a laugh, turning her head to give him a sidelong look. She should have expected more teasing. “I’m a little more awake now, I suppose.”

Thancred chuckled, tickling her neck with his beard to make her squirm before leaning away. She heard fabric rustling, and then a small curse that accompanied a sudden shift on the mattress. Giggling, she craned her head back and drew her hair over one shoulder to watch him struggle back up to his knees, now bereft of his smallclothes.

Thancred pretended he wasn’t recovering from losing his balance, shooting her a wolfish smile as he grasped her waist and pulled her up to her knees. Anticipation raced down her back as he slotted between her legs, hot, nervous excitement tickling fitfully just below her stomach. Her heart did an excited little skip as his knees nudged hers further apart, goosebumps surging across her skin.

He held her steady with one hand on her hip and aligned himself; her breath hitching when he nocked against her and pressed his free hand against the small of her back. He made a low sound and sank into her, his grip tightening as he drew her back onto him.

Gwen sucked in a slow breath, a mix of pleasure and sharp tension rolling up her spine and prickling under her skin. They hadn’t done this position much, and she quickly discovered it was..._ a lot_. Thancred hilted himself with a groan and a shudder that echoed through her as a wave of intense little sparks that ricocheted along her thighs and up her back. Her breath stuttered, the angle letting him reach so deeply and fill her so utterly it was almost difficult to see straight. She half-wondered if he might split her in two like this, but in the best way.

She took a shaky breath and willed herself to relax, grasping for patience as she adjusted. Thancred remained still and hummed softly, smoothing his hands over her back. “Alright, dove?”

“Yes, just,” she huffed a laugh, “give me a minute.”

“We have all night.” He smoothed his hands over her back again, pressing here and there to help ease the little tensions that had built as she worked to accommodate him. As she relaxed Thancred draped himself across her, bracing his weight on his forearms beside hers and molding his chest to her back. He nuzzled the side of her head, both of them shuddering as one when he shifted a little too much and sent more sparks dancing in all directions.

He rasped an apology against her shoulder, tensing and stilling again.

Gwen hummed to cover her small laugh, strain and tension easing enough for them to continue. “I’m fine.” She arched against his chest and shifted purposefully back, skin dragging against skin. He shuddered and tensed against her as she asked breathily, “Start slow?”

“Of course.” He adjusted his weight on his hands and dragged a few slow, tender kisses along the nape of her neck. That same feeling of anticipation returned in an instant and she struggled not to tense up again, her heart doing an excited little flip.

Thancred moved carefully when he eased back and then slowly, purposefully drove his hips forward. 

Pleasure rolled through her, a slow wave instead of a staggered ripple, and she moaned softly as her eyes fluttered shut. She curled her fingers in the sheets as he rocked into her again, heat and pleasure washing over her senses like waves on a seashore.

They built a steady rhythm, his mouth pressed to her neck to muffle the heady sounds rising up in the back of his throat. She could feel him, his skin slick with sweat and sliding against hers, his heart hammering against her back, the muscles of his chest and arms stuttering and tensing with each thrust. It all heightened her senses and drove her mad in a way she’d never experienced. 

“Lower, dove.” Thancred groaned against the back of her ear., 

Gwen made a confused sound in reply, shuddering at the heat of his breath.

He clarified- “Get _lower_, dove.” His knees pushed against hers to ease them farther apart and he leaned more heavily against her shoulders, trying to coax her into acting, “Lean down.” 

She wasn’t sure what sort of tone he was aiming for, but the heated, half-desperate rumble he managed made her melt. She shifted her legs further apart as best she could, letting his weight and the hard angles of his chest drive her down to the mattress.

Thancred murmured his approval as he adjusted his arms around her, better caging her between him and the bed. 

He canted his hips a little, adjusting for a new angle before _slamming _into her.

Stars exploded behind her eyes, something between a moan and a shout bursting from her lips. Her face and ears blazed with embarrassed heat when she realized how loud she’d been.

“You’re always so quiet,” he sighed fondly, “I will never tire of making you _scream_.”

Gwen had enough time for a dazed giggle before he slammed home again, her blood singing and sparking in her veins. She swore appreciatively, “_Twelve_, Thancred…”

His teeth were sharp and sweet at the nape of her neck, ragged breaths splashing over her skin, “And I’ll never tire of the way you say my name…”

Gwen steadied herself by fisting the sheets, rocking back to meet each thrust of his hips. She dropped her head onto the bed, panting blissful sounds as bright, searing pleasure thrummed through every last ilm of her each time he hit just _right_. 

Thancred muffled his keener sounds with burning kisses and gentle bites, moans and throaty praises skating across her skin as he drove her into the mattress.

He slid a hand beneath her to splay against her stomach, feeling her shudder and dance against his palm with each meeting of their hips. His fingertips pressed firmly, five pinpricks that left her skin buzzing in five lines as they slid down and dipped between her legs. 

His fingers brushed against her clit and she gasped, upsetting their rhythm when she bucked back into him. Even so light a touch was enough to put a dazzling edge on every thrust.

Thancred’s voice strained against her shoulder, “Sing for me, dove.”

Gwen twisted the sheets in her hands in a desperate bid to hold herself together. She was barely aware of the ardent pleading and praises falling from her lips as he crashed into her and his clever fingers played her like a lute. 

The mounting thrum of heat in her core drew taut and she was helpless to stop herself from falling over the edge. She stuttered a warning between breaths, “Tha-_ah--!_ Thancred!” 

He felt her tense, a bowstring ready to snap. He pressed his lips to her ear and traced circles against her, maintaining his hard pace, “Guinevere…!” 

Her release surged through her like a tide of sweet fire, wiping away everything --from stray pieces of thought to old aches in her bones-- except the near-unbearable bliss of that moment. She gasped and cried out something that sounded like his name, clenching and writhing in ecstasy and chasing her breath. 

Thancred buried his face against her neck, gasping curses and praises as he tensed all around her, pace faltering and hips stuttering. He pulled his hand from her legs to clutch her tightly against him, sharing every pulse and tremor as he came undone.

Gwen fell slack as the rush of her release eased into a pleasant hum, trembling and panting in his grasp. Thancred sagged against her and the arm around her fell limp, allowing her to sink to the bed with a grateful sound. He followed immediately, collapsing bonelessly against her back and pillowing his head between her shoulders, heavy breaths puffing across her damp skin.

His weight, every ilm loose and utterly relaxed, was a comfort, but it quickly proved to be a bit too much. She let him linger until he’d started to catch his breath before making a quiet noise and shifting her shoulders. A soft grunt accompanied him lifting from her back, cold air rushing across heated skin as she breathed a quiet sigh. He lingered to plant a slow kiss between her shoulders before rolling gracelessly onto his back with a small ‘whuff’, content to lay where he fell beside her. She smiled and scooted closer, lining his side with her front and humming contentedly as his arm settled around her. She pillowed her head on his chest, listening to his gradually slowing breaths and idly tracing her fingers along the lines of his collarbone and shoulder.

With only echoes of her release hazing her thoughts her earlier weariness and the trials of the day began to trickle back. It all piled on top of her newfound exhaustion, tugging on her eyelids and making her limbs grow heavy as she realized just how comfortable she was.

Thancred shifted a little. Then a little more. Curiosity coaxed her into opening her eyes. She found him peering at her room through half-closed eyes, a certain sort of frown on his lips.

She grinned lazily, “Recognize anything?”

He made a noncommittal sound, holding her closer and settling his head on his pillow. “Hard to say with all this mess in the way.”

She snorted, eyes sliding shut as she yawned, “Mm. You’re _sure _you’re only tipsy?”

“Can’t hear you. Too tired,” he mumbled blithely.

Much as she wanted to wheedle at him, another yawn and the growing effort it took to speak told her it could wait till morning. She made a vague, skeptical sound to tell him she wasn’t done teasing before slipping, at last, into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8D?
> 
> How’d I do lol
> 
> I’ve never written smut before sooooo....
> 
> Thanks once again to @rhymingteelookatme for all of the help beta reading and offering so many great suggestions!!


	10. Comfort food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the micro story prompt "Comfort Food" on tumblr...  
...except micro-story not so micro because _it meeeeeee_
> 
> Mild, sorta-kinda spoilers for the level 73 ALC/CUL Crystarium Deliveries quest. Not a lot actually happens at this point in the quest line but, in case you wanted to play it yourself first, stop here.

Gwen sets the bucket of porridge in front of the dark-feathered amaro –Skip, Bethric had said– with a weary huff. She’s never made a _bucket _of anything before, at least not by herself, but a smaller portion wouldn’t be enough for a creature Skip’s size. 

She stretches her hands and beckons, “Here, Skip. Dinnertime.”

Skip eyes the bucket with something deeply uneasy that speaks of more than mere skepticism. “_Khrrrr…_” 

“Heh, it doesn’t look too appetizing right? I know,” Gwen says with a friendly laugh. “But it tastes good, and it’ll be easy on your stomach.”

Skip makes a quiet sound and turns his head away.

Gwen’s shoulders slump a little, worry and disappointment trickling through her head. The poor creature is too weak and ill to go without food, but after what put him in this state Gwen can hardly blame him for not wanting to eat.

“Hmm…” She crouches by the bucket, considering petting him before deciding against it. No need to go pushing boundaries when he’s already unhappy and miserable. What could she do instead? Well, amaro are fairly intelligent creatures, so…? “Skip– Skip, here, watch me.”

The amaro’s dull eyes flick back to her.

For lack of a better alternative, Gwen tugs off one of her gloves and scoops up some porridge with her bare hand. “Who needs table manners, right?” She jokes, slightly awkwardly. “Erm, sorry, though. I hope you don’t mind. I don’t have many options.” 

Skip’s eyes follow her hand all the way to her mouth, and he looks the faintest bit curious. 

The porridge is fairly bland, but the texture is right; not too soupy, and not too thick or stodgy. She wipes her dirtied hand on the ground while digging through her pockets with the other, searching for a handkerchief. “See? It’s safe to eat. I promise.” 

Skip stares at her, blinking slowly as she rids her face and hands of the last remnants of porridge. 

It’s not long before Gwen starts to feel a bit like she’s being scrutinized, and it takes effort to be still and not fidget, lest she make herself look suspicious. She dabs at her mouth one more time before balling her handkerchief up. 

If this doesn’t work, she’s not sure what to do. Perhaps get a different amaro to try it? Surely they can communicate–not counting proper speech, which none of the Crystarium’s amaro, Skip included, have shown themselves capable of.

Skip bleats quietly before wearily lifting his head, and her heart flutters hopefully. He moves a little closer to the bucket, giving its bland contents a hard look and a few discerning sniffs.

He stares at the porridge for most of a minute before looking back up at Gwen, checking one more to make sure she was still well.

“I’m fine, Skip,” Gwen assures gently. She nudges the bucket a little closer to him, hoping it might make it easier for him to eat, “No one here will hurt you, I promise. It’s safe.” 

Skip blinks slowly, looking vaguely contemplative. He dips his nose into the bucket, taking another deep, suspicious sniff. 

Gwen watches, picking at drip of porridge that’s drying on her pants. “I’m not the best cook, I admit. But porridge is easy, and I made it so much growing up I can practically do it blind nowadays.” She smiles apologetically and shrugs, “I, ah, could have put in more raisins and a bit more sugar, but I don’t like sweets, you see, so, well, habit. And I was worried too many raisins could upset your stomach.”

Skip finally tries a little nibble.

Gwen holds her breath, leaning a little closer and trying to gauge his reaction.

Apparently satisfied –or maybe just too hungry to refuse– he bleats quietly and begins to eat.

The collective sigh of relief from her, Bethric and Knem is nearly enough to knock the poor creature over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supposed to be a micro story but I have a -5 modifier to 'short' and 'micro' writing.


	11. "You have to leave right now."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask prompt from a friend on Tumblr.
> 
> Spoilers for Late-ShB/Post-Innocence & _Extinguishing the Last Light_ MSQ

Gwen can barely see, struggling with all her might to try and force the light down; to squash it into some small thing she can keep control of.

It’s not working.

Emet-Selch is talking, rambling about the Tempest and some twisted sort of respite, but she can barely hear it over the splintering light that’s welling up from within her. 

It _hurts_–she can’t even wrap her mind around the horrible sensation. Every ilm of her is sparking and crackling, as though she’s trying to contain a bust of scathing flame that can break her open any moment. She’s _warping_ somehow, aether and skin crawling and blazing within and without. She feels like she’s going to break rather than burst.

_Hold on. Hold. On._ Clinging to the single-minded desperation not to succumb to the light and trying to will herself to overcome is all she can do. All she can think about. She doesn’t have a choice. She can’t just– She _can’t _let the light _win_. For her own sake, but more importantly for her friends, for Norvrandt…

There’s a crisp, sharp sound like cracking glass. She doesn’t give any energy to letting herself think about what caused it.

Gwen is on the ground. She doesn’t remember how she got there. Her side is distantly throbbing from an impact. She curls in on herself, partially on instinct, partially in the feeble hope that it will protect her somehow, or will keep her from ripping apart at the seams.

Her ears are ringing with a high, pitiless tone. Her tenuous senses register a tortured wheezing and gasping sound just beneath it. There’s a tiny spark of recognition. _That’s…Is that me?_

“Gwen!” Alisae’s voice is muffled and fuzzy, as if she’s yelling through a gag. 

The ground rumbles faintly with the drum of footsteps.

“Guinevere!” Y’shtola’s voice is dim, too.

“Hold on, Gwen! We’re here!” Alphinaud sounds somehow both close and far away.

There’s pressure on her shoulders, then on her arms and her face. Hands touching her and moving her, she realizes. Some part of her knows the touches are light and careful, trying to comfort and reassure, but they’re too _intense_. 

“Hold on, Gwen,” Thancred’s voice is straining and cracking at the edges in a way she’s never heard before.

The others… 

She’s holding on, she’s doing her damndest, she _won’t _just– she _can’t_–

But… 

But if worst comes to worst –and it really feels like it could– she can at least save _them_…

It takes so much _effort _to find words in the blaze inside her skull, and more still to pull them to her tongue, grating like sandpaper all the way. Her mouth is slick with oily bile that tastes of light, and her jaw is stiff. Despite all the effort she pours into her voice it comes out small and ragged, “Y-you have to…leave. Leave r-right now.” 

“_Never_.” Thancred’s voice is harsh and full of barely-restrained emotion that sounds like anger.

Someone holds her –_Thancred?_ she wonders thinly– so delicately but at the same time desperately, their fingers sharp points where they grasp at her. _Too much_, she thinks feebly at them. She’s too fragile for that.

More cracking sounds cut sharply through the steady ringing, as if the careful embrace is breaking her further.

Thancred must hear it too, because he relents immediately with a bitter curse.

The vague shapes and colors of the world around her get washed away, lost in bright whiteness. Even closing her eyes offers no respite from the brilliant light. 

Her body bows against her will, warping, _cracking_, and she heaves another mouthful putrid incandescence. She convulses, gasping wetly and fighting to be still, clinging to that fast-fading determination to _hold on_. The ringing is getting louder, rising in pitch.

No one touches her, thinking they might damage her like that careful embrace had. When she finally stops, left feebly shuddering and wheezing, feeling twisted and wrung out, they come back. Feather light, careful, gentle, she knows they are, but they feel so _sharp_, like tacks piercing her skin. 

A strange sensation pushes against her conciousness, something soft and calming that’s edging into all of the sharp, bright things inside her that are trying to crack and bend her until she breaks. It feels a bit like that haunting warmth that’s said to seep through someone just before they freeze to death.

She’s losing, then.

“_Please_,” Gwen grates out, thorns of heat gathering in her eyes and cutting paths down her cheeks. She can’t _see_. “You have…to leave… _Now_.”

“Ryne!” Alisaie’s voice is straining like she’s screaming, yet she sounds so quiet.

“I’m trying,” Ryne’s strained voice rings louder than anyone else’s. That soft calmness pushes, gentle but firm, and then suddenly falters. “I just– I–” 

“Give her your aether!” Y’shtola’s staticky voice barks. “Hurry!”

Voices lose distinction, muffling and blending in with the steady, piercing ringing until Gwen is deaf to all else. 

_Please… _

The strange calm rails against her senses. It sinks into her like a knife between her ribs.

The cracks stop growing.

Then the world slips away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ty to Evangeline-Cross on tumblr for proof reading :B


	12. Nicknames? And if so, how did they originate?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ask from tumblr. Just rambling about Gwen and nicknames :B

“Nicknames?” Gwen tilts her head thoughtfully, “Well, I suppose ‘Gwen’ is one. I like my full name, but I can’t help thinking it sounds a little,” she gestures vaguely, “a little…overly formal, if that makes sense? _Guinevere_. It’s lovely, just,” she makes a neutral, unimpressed sound. “I like both versions, but ‘Gwen’ is just far shorter and a little more, maybe, approachable-sounding? Or casual? Not to mention it’s much easier for children to say. But I do introduce myself with both and leave it up to others to decide which they prefer. It honestly doesn’t bother me.”

She thinks for a moment, “Some of my friends use one or the other exclusively; Alisaie and Lyse only call me Gwen, while Uriangier, Y’shtola and Krile only call me Guinevere. Some people, like Alphinaud and Aymeric, switch depending on the situation. If we’re among friends it’s ‘Gwen’, but in more formal and serious settings it’s ‘Guinevere’.” She laughs, “Which sort of reinforces the whole ‘Guinevere sounds formal’ thing, doesn’t it?”

Gwen drums her fingers and shifts in her seat a little. “And side from that… Well, people can give me nicknames if they like, and I don’t mind provided they’re, you know, not…too odd or strange or,” she waves a hand, “you know, so long as they’re _reasonable_.”

She thinks for another minute, “Thancred calls me dove.” She smiles faintly. “It’s funny actually, when I met him he was such a flirt, but I didn’t really, ah, listen to the flirting, I guess you could say? It’s not that I thought he was insincere, really, so much as I just… have never really cared for surface-level compliments? Like about my appearance, I mean. Anyone can make a comment about looks and pretty it up with a bit of poetry or erudite praise. I mean, he was certainly creative about it, so I can’t say ‘I’d heard it all before’, but I had heard _versions_ before. Emerald eyes, silver streaks in my hair, all that…” She pets one of the gray streaks almost self-consciously.

“Compliments about my skills, about what I can do, or,” she waffles for a moment, “my personality, I guess, those sorts of things mean a lot more to me. Because that’s deeper stuff, you know? Someone needs to _know _me, at least a little bit. It…needs more effort, I suppose. I’ve gotten my fair share of compliments over the years and they’ve never really… become much, if that makes sense, and Thancred’s seemed much the same–though he did have the benefit of proving that he was resourceful and skilled in his own right when we fought voidsent and that Ascian acolyte to retrieve the Sultana’s crown. Still, I didn’t really know him, so…” 

Gwen laughs, “And, well, Thancred didn’t really seem to _get _that. Not that I was terribly straightforward about it, besides brushing the flowery words aside. Not until one day when I–” She laughs again, almost nervously this time, and shakes her head, “It was shortly before he asked me to join the Scions. He paid me some mellifluous praise about my…” she pauses, thinking, “ah, I don’t remember exactly. My eyes? I honestly don’t remember. Whatever it was, it ended with him comparing me to a desert rose, and I,” she pauses again, looking vaguely rueful and tugging on her hair, “I joked back, ‘So, pretty to look at, delicate and short-lived?’ and laughed, because I was just teasing, and he looked, ah… Well frankly he looked a little stunned for a moment. I don’t think anyone had ever replied like that. I was, erm, a bit worried that I’d gone a little too far. But a second later we were right back to chatting like nothing happened… except he toned down the all the praise and flirting a bit. Later he told me he found it interesting more than offputting or anything else, which… I’m glad for, honestly, because ‘offputting’ was _not _what I’d intended.”

“Then I joined the Scions and we started to work together, so we had the chance to chat get know each other a little. I mean, he was still the man I met in Ul’dah, but I got to actually _know _a bit about him–more than ‘oh, that charming fellow with the strange mask that flirts with every woman he sees in between chasing aetherical disturbances’.” She laughs and sighs, “And he still had _plenty_ of little comments and quips, but he started… complimenting random things? Other things, I mean, besides my appearance –though those didn’t completely stop– until he finally got a reaction out of me. Or, well, the reaction he wanted.” She folds her arms and shakes her head, blushing a little more, “He’s stubborn like that.”

“I suppose, being frank but still a little…charitable, you can chalk it up to simply wanting to know more about his fellow Scions. But I’m sure knowing how to best flatter his friends helps when it comes to sweet-talking his way out of whatever uncomfortable situation he’s gone and gotten himself into. Also through talking, knowing him.” Gwen rolls her eyes, mostly exasperated but still a bit fond. “And then, well… I mean, I lived at the Waking Sands for a few weeks before we were sent to Drybone to investigate the disappearances, and he kept coming around, and we kept talking. During all of that he started to figure out what I…cared about or preferred, I guess, when it came to compliments and the like. And he’s charming, of course, and he _knows_ it.” She scoffs. “So his words started to stick, because he’s frustratingly good with them when he chooses to be. Actually, even when he’s not trying. Well, anyway, we worked together well and got along, but it didn’t really… Well, I mean, he was still laying it on a bit thick. And I told him so, so we could have a regular conversation without all the flattery and all that getting in the way, you know? I wasn’t the first in that regard, at least, ha. But before we could really get to _know_ one another, to actually be _friends_ more than _colleagues_, well…Ifrit happened.” 

Gwen frowns and sighs. “It… He took it hard. I didn’t even know him _that _well, all things considered, but I could still tell it was really eating at him. He was… I’m not sure. At the very least he blamed himself for Ifrit tempering those soldiers and trying to temper me. And for me having to fight it alone… Not that his presence would have really made a difference…” She shakes her head, “Even if he’d been there, that doesn’t mean that ambush would have gone any differently. I mean, maybe it could have. But maybe not. And if not, well, then _he_ would have been tempered too, and… Yeah.”

“One night I tried to cheer him up a little and we ended up joking about all his compliments and flirting and all the little pet names I’d heard him call people–usually related to flowers or sunny days or those sorts of things. He jokingly vowed to find some sort of nickname for me that wouldn’t have me ‘running for the hills’ or whatever, and I said, ‘Nothing to do with flowers, I hope’ and we laughed a bit. It did seem to put him in a better mood, for a little while, at least. And, then, well,” she shifts awkwardly, “the necklace and…yeah.” She sighs frustratedly and shakes her head.

“After the Praetorium Thancred took a while to recover and I…avoided him because of–well, it was partially my fault. But we talked that out,” Gwen rolls her eyes and smiles fondly, “and he _teased_ me about it, of course. Always with the teasing and trying to get some kind of reaction out of me, I swear. Once he’d recovered a bit, just out of the blue he called me ‘dove’. And I…” She temporizes, leaning her head one way and then the other, “Well, I liked it, honestly. I just…like the word, and the way he said it,” she blushes and shakes her head, “not that you needed to know _t__hat _part. _Ahem. _And, well… I did say ‘no flowers’ and it wasn’t a flower. And I hadn’t heard him call anyone else ‘dove’ before, either. Later, after I thought about it, I realized I also liked the, the,” she pauses, searching for a word, “the associations it had, If that makes sense? Doves are a symbol of hope and peace and gentleness and…that sort of thing. With all the fighting and Primal slaying and all, it feels… Well, I liked it then and I like it now.”

Gwen scoffs lightly, grinning, “Well, the ‘not hearing him call anyone else’ bit isn’t quite so accurate. When we worked with the Rogue’s guild I found out dove is a sort of–of…of colloquial term for a woman in Limsa Lominsa. It’s like ‘lass’, you know? Eventually I got Thancred to admit he’d specifically stopped using the word with that sort of connotation when he’d abandoned his Lominsan accent, dialect, and thieves’ cant while he studied in Sharlayan. Scholars don’t ask you to, ah… what did he say again?” She thinks for a moment, “Scholars don’t task you to ‘get yer best beater-cases and lend yer daddles to mill a rum cove’, after all. Either way, I’m the only one he calls dove now and… That’s good enough.”

“As for my end of things, well,” Gwen fidgets with her rings and her hair. “I don’t really use nicknames, unless someone asks me to–or everyone else refers to them by their nickname. Like ‘Gwen’ for me, you see. And I’m not in the habit of making up my own nicknames for others, either. I don’t really have a reason why, I suppose I just never got in the habit.”

She tugs her hair and blushes a little darker, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I’ll admit, I _have _tried the, ah, the ‘pet name’ thing–pet name? Nickname? Ah, whichever. I mean, calling Thancred something different, like how he calls me ‘dove’ and it… Well, suffice it to say it didn’t work out. I sort of…stumbled over them and said them so awkwardly every time I tried, it just… Ugh, it didn’t work. And he teased me, _of course_, but he wasn’t mean about it.” Gwen laughs, “I swear, whenever I try he acts like I’m trying to–to butter him up because I need something from him. And doing a terrible job of it, might I add. ‘Oh, ‘dearest’, am I? I’m flattered, dove… or I would be, if you didn’t sound as though you were about to ask for a hefty and unpleasant favor’ and he always says it with this–this– that stupid cocky _grin _of his.” She folds her arms, smiling through a scoff, “The _nerve, _I swear.”

Gwen pauses, considering, and her smile fades. “Though I… I have called him ‘darling’ a time or two, but that– It was…different. A different situation, I mean, and I– ah, well, he… Well, once he’d had a nightmare and I, I didn’t really think about it, I just _said_ it while I was talking to him, and… I don’t know, it seemed to help me…reach him? I don’t know how to describe it. Anyway I– I sort of,” she ponders a few words, “hold on to that one, you could say.”

“All that aside, Thancred genuinely isn’t bothered that I don’t call him any nicknames or anything silly. And teasing and namecalling when we’re bickering doesn’t count. That’s different.” She hesitates, “Once, when he was drunk, he said his name ‘sounds different when I say it’.” Gwen looks away, face turning redder, “Even though I _don’t_ say it differently or– or– I don’t even have an _accent_, so…”

Gwen shakes her head sharply, getting ahold of her self. “Right. Well. I suppose the most important takeaways are that _my_ nickname is Gwen. Thancred calls me dove. I don’t really, ah, _do_ nicknames, and he doesn’t mind that. And we both get a laugh whenever I decide to give it a try and end up messing it up.”

————–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write it like Gwen was saying the reply, even though she doesn’t talk half this much and wouldn’t have actually shared about 90% of that with anyone rofl
> 
> Maybe think about it like a journal entry instead lol <s>I don’t wanna rewrite it agh</s>
> 
> It was suggested to me to think of it as a conversation she's having in her head, and I LIKE THAT IDEA.


	13. Harsh Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Response to an ask from Tumblr. Months late >.> and once again micro story not so micro rofl
> 
> Thancred has a nightmare.

Everything is burning, oranges and reds flaring through the smoke that’s choking the air. Thancred can’t think for all the screaming. He can’t stand. His legs don’t work. He claws his way forward, away –he _hopes _it’s away– from the terrible thing that’s looming behind him.

Everything his hands find breaks. He rends it himself if it doesn’t shatter from his touch alone, tearing and twisting in his desperate bid to escape. He doesn’t mean to but–

Someone is sobbing. He tastes blood on his tongue.

He’s not fast enough. He _knows _he’s not. That makes it all the worse when everything folds in on him, weight and sound crushing him into darkness. 

Thoughts come in pieces that cut holes, small ones that barely let him breathe. He tries to make a sound, to cry out, but the darkness floods his mouth. 

He can’t _breathe_.

Everything thins and twists oddly. The world upends itself and dumps him out.

Sensation and semi-awareness hit him like a wall of stone. He jerks, trying to do a thousand things all at the same time. His body seizes up and his breath scrapes his throat.

The silence is loud, ringing in his ears like a bell, and the world around him feels only half-there, tenuous and liable to collapse at any moment. The darkness is a thick, living thing, coating his eyes and his thoughts. His mind is running in circles under a thick pall and he can’t–

A scratchy, half-awake murmur is just beside him. “Thancred?” 

Someone is there. Someone who isn’t sobbing or screaming. 

Thancred reaches out, stiff muscles straining and cracking. He finds something solid and warm that doesn’t splinter in his grasp.

The voice is gentler, bending with worry, “Thancred…” 

He…knows that voice? Who is it? He can’t _see_.

He drags them closer, burying his face against cloth and skin. He knows he’s safer now, though he’s not sure how. It’s not like one can defend themselves against darkness and smoke.

Arms wrap loosely around him at once and fingers slide through his hair. Gooseflesh races down the back of his neck, little prickles of sensation that prick air holes in his thoughts. He latches onto the sensation, a tangible anchor for everything adrift and skittering about inside his head.

“It’s alright, shhhh…” They whisper, so steady and sure he can’t help but listen. “Just breathe…”

They’re real, he knows. More real, somehow, than the screams he’d been fleeing from or the smoke that had scratched his lungs; more real than the blood that had run between his fingers and the bones that had shattered in his hands.

He knows the voice. He knows who’s speaking to him. He knows but he_ can’t_–

“Shhhhh, you don’t need to explain.” 

He…wasn’t speaking? Was he? He closes his mouth and grasps for the calming techniques he’s used for years, dim and half-remembered right then. He wrestles with his breaths to try and even them out.

The form he’s holding shifts and the arms around him loosen.

He feels himself starting to fall, darkness already beginning to pull him under to drown him again.

He clutches them tighter and conjures a harsh whisper, “_Don’t._” Don’t what? He’s not entirely sure. His head still isn’t–

Whoever he’s clinging to draws him closer and folds him into a protective embrace. Lips touch the crown of his head, assurances feathering through his hair. “Sorry, I’m sorry… Shhhh, shhh, I’m not going anywhere, darling…”

Darling?

The darkness parts a little, the cogs and wheels in his head beginning to grasp one another and turn together instead of spinning aimlessly. 

“Shhhhh…. I’m right here, Thancred. Breathe…” 

He does. 

No smoke. The air is cool and smells of flowers, herbs, clean linens and the presence he’s pressed so close to.. 

No screaming. Only the soft whispers that are smoothing out the static inside his head.

His hands are clutching fabric. Nothing is breaking. He uncurls his fingers and spreads his hands against warm skin. He feels the shape of their back, bone and muscle pressing towards and easing back from his palms in time with slow breaths.

He mimics the rhythm and matches it in moments. Tight things in his chest start to unfold and the wheels turn a little more easily.

Recognition trickles through his thoughts like meltwater, collecting at the front of his mind. Thancred croaks, “Gwen?”

Gwen hums into his hair, her hands gliding slowly over his back. “I’m here.”

His thoughts crystalize in an instant and the stubborn echoes of smoke and death vanish. 

Gwen is here. He goes slack like a puppet on cut strings.

She pauses, her body still while her mind works to understand what the sudden change in his demeanor might mean. She softens and kisses the crown of his head again, a hand sliding up into his hair to cradle the base of his skull. More goosebumps wander down the back of his neck, smoothing out kinks and teasing out the last little knots and tangles. She tucks his head against her neck, curling around him as best she can. “Are you alright?”

He moves his hands blindly over her back, mapping out familiar scars and feeling her breaths. “Better now.” 

She relaxes a little more. “Do you want to talk?”

His, “No,” is immediate, quiet and sure.

Oh, but… He tenses, fingertips pressing. Can they stay like this if he doesn’t talk? Can he stay here without explaining himself? Part of him is sure he can, but a small sliver doubts.

She wouldn’t…she wouldn’t force him to speak.

…Right?

He coughs, buying time and clearing out the faint crackling in his throat. “This isn’t really my… most composed moment.” 

Gwen hums at him, fingertips tracing small circles. She says neutrally, “You’ve had worse.”

“Is that supposed to be a comfort?” he asks dryly.

Her giggle is lazy and quiet, a tired butterfly wending its way to land on a flower. “Did it work?”

“…A bit. Maybe.”

She smiles, tightening her embrace for a moment. “Then yes.”

Amusement bubbles up and lifts a few thoughts that were still hanging too heavily. “So much for company ensuring peaceful rest or… whatever the saying is.”

Another kiss to his crown. “No solution is perfect.”

“Alas.”

“But it does help a little, at least. Right?” She asks, weariness creeping into the softness of her voice. “After, if not during.”

He nuzzles the crook of her neck and admits quietly, “Immensely.”

He hopes that serves to imply the question he can’t bring himself to ask.

Gwen murmurs, “How do you feel?”

Her weariness is seeping into him, tugging on his eyelids and settling into his muscles. Thancred feels a yawn beginning to build in his throat. He swallows it and blinks slowly, pulling himself back towards full consciousness. “You already asked that.”

Gwen waits, breathing slowly and tracing lazy shapes.

He relents, “I’m alright, dove,” and smooths a hand along her spine as if that would prove it. She’s at ease. He can feel it. It helps. 

For the briefest moment he doesn’t remember why he’s even awake.

A pleased hum slides through his hair. “Do you think you can sleep?”

There are layers to that question that he would be able to see even if he didn’t know her so well. He drums up a hint of derisive amusement, “Pray tell me you don’t intend to stay awake with me if I can’t?”

“I would,” she says, wrestling with a yawn that warns him the best she could do is try. But she _would _try.

He could almost drift off right then and there, and part of him thinks that would be a rather amusing way to answer the question. He speaks instead, “Worry not, dove. I…I can sleep.” He doesn’t add, _Here. I can sleep if I stay here… Please…_

“Sleep then, darling,” Gwen bids softly. “I’ll be right here.”

The word and assurance wrap around him, causing something warm and soft to well up and crack a little. He closes his eyes against it.

_Darling_.

Thancred should… make a joke about that. Gwen doesn’t call him things like ‘darling’ or ‘dear’, at least not so easily and comfortably as this. No, she hesitates before tripping over the endearment in place of his name, or awkwardly shoves it in mid-sentence like it’s a word she’s never tried to use before.

“Darling now, is it?” he teases.

Gwen’s hum of reply is drooping with lethargy and her hands are slowing. She’s lazy and heavy in his arms, already halfway asleep again.

He’s sure he can stay as he is, tucked safely against her– except part of him isn’t. But he’s ever been a firm believer that it is better to ask forgiveness than permission.

Besides, if she’s already falling asleep she clearly doesn’t mind their present arrangement.

Her hands still and her arms fall slack, their slight weight settling with a comfortable sense of finality. She moves a little and noses at his hair, mumbling through another yawn.

Then she’s asleep.

Thancred closes his eyes and listens, feeling her in his arms and under his hands. He sinks into the stillness of the room and hides his face against her neck, safe and secure when sleep finds him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear god it took me forever to come up with something for this.
> 
> I did _try_ to keep it short, at least. And it sorta kinda is lol
> 
> Comfort yay. And sleep, because I'm tired and writing this made me more tired ugh
> 
> can I nap at work, is that cool or


	14. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An original drabble. How _did_ all those flowers wind up on her balcony, anyway?

Gwen sat at the entrance to her balcony, pinching weeds out of her flowerpots.

“Have you figured out how all those flowers came to be on your balcony?” Thancred asked from across the room, utterly disinterested in the book in front of him. He’d made himself comfortable on her bed, lying on his side and propping up his head with one hand.

She tossed a few weeds over the railing then flicked off the little bits of dirt that didn’t make it. “I would guess you,” she said thoughtfully.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’.”

She smiled. “_But, _how would you have known where to send them? Or when? They were already here the first time the Pendants’ manager showed me to the room.”

Thancred sighed dramatically. “And here I was ready to take all the credit.”

Gwen hummed at him, patting dirt back into place. She hefted herself up and made for the sink. “G’raha, right?”

“Quick to abandon his title, I see,” he said with mild amusement. “And you are correct.”

“On your advice?”

“He remembered you favored flowers,” Thancred said with a tone that implied a shrug. “But he sought Urianger’s –and through him, _my_– advice in regards to which colors you preferred.”

Gwen smiled, drying her hands. “Ah. _That’s_ why there’s no orange.”

“And so much purple,” he added with a self-satisfied smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spur-of the moment thing. And short! :D  
I always KNEW there were flowers on the balcony, but it didn't really REGISTER till I was taking some reference pics. There's a screenshot of Gwen and the flowers on my tumblr :D  
I maintain that the flowers on the balcony are PINK not ORANGE <s>for the sake of this story</s>


	15. Kiss on a place of insecurity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen is insecure about a lot of things, actually; the grey streaks in her hair, her deplorable penmanship, and the calluses and scars that riddle her hands chief among them.
> 
> An ask from the "Fifty Ways to Kiss Someone" prompts on tumblr

Gwen scribbles on a page in her journal, her elbows leaned heavily on her desk with her head resting listlessly on her free hand. Though more than a few people have referred to her handwriting as such, she is actually just _scribbling_ a progressively larger and denser snarl of ink. She should be writing, she’s just wasting paper and drawing this nonsensical knot of curving, jagged lines isn’t even making her feel better. But she’s… having a bit of a hard time doing that. 

There’s a restless, tangled fog hovering in her head that feels as if it would match the haphazard depiction on her page. Her head is thick with it, plainly there but untouchable when she tries to pull it aside or take it apart; the dim haze seeps over and into whatever she’s tried to focus on or distract herself with.

Gwen halfheartedly tries logic again, wondering if she might be able to reason her way through and out the other side even though previous attempts haven’t managed to get her anywhere. 

Everyone has their insecurities, fragile things and bruises they try to protect, compensate for or avoid in their own ways. There’s nothing wrong with that, per say, though it’s a rather unpleasant burden to carry, particularly if it starts to get out of hand. 

‘Everyone’ includes Gwen, much as her titles and deeds might try to set her apart. She has her own share of little discomforts with herself, things that make her tense or cause her stomach to squirm or her heart to sink uncomfortably when she’s confronted with them. 

One particularly sensitive bruise of self-consciousness had been struck rather soundly earlier –on accident and without malice, she knows, but it hardly makes a difference– and she’s been aching from it ever since. Telling herself it’s nothing to be ashamed of, that no one cares, that it’s not a big deal, has never done anything to soothe or clear her thoughts, and now is proving to be no exception.

Gwen huffs a breath and puts the pen aside, frowning down at the scribble and half-finished sentence that came before it. She looks at her hands, spreading her fingers slightly and wiggling them a little without thinking. Her hands are still and steady, her nails short and even. Her gloves cover all but her fingers, long enough to nearly reach her shoulders with various bangles, clasps and thin metal chains ensuring they stay securely in place.

She curls and flexes her fingers a few times, briefly debating reaching for her pen again. She decides against it.

_“Can you do it? Your hands are all tough and stuff.”_

One corner of her mouth twists and pulls a little tighter. 

The child hadn’t meant anything by it, she’d just needed help, and Gwen’s hands had been more suited to the task than hers. And it was fair for her to point that out, too, because that sort of thing isn’t a big deal, and her hands _are _rather, ah… strong. 

Gwen picks at a few bits of dirt that are stuck under her nails, then runs her fingers over her knuckles.

She’s not mad at the child; not in the slightest. She’s not even annoyed by the fact the child had made the comment at all. It really… shouldn’t be a big deal. She knows that.

Of course her hands are scarred, callused and tough; she’s had to work her whole life and her skin grew tougher to withstand it. It’s not the least bit surprising. Years of chopping branches and lumber, digging in the dirt, climbing trees and rocky cliffs and learning to wield a lance, staff and sword would do that to _anyone’s_ hands. It doesn’t mean anything, and it’s not a big deal.

An old, lingering discomfort wells up that leaves her feeling a little off, as though she’s suddenly being pulled too tightly and something is starting to tear a little. Her mouth wrinkles with another frown and she chews on the corner of her lip. She knows the feeling well, though the cause is more often the streaks of gray in her hair than the toughness of her hands.

She doesn’t _want_ it to be a big deal. Because it shouldn’t be– or at least she doesn’t _think _it should be. Her hands are strong, steady and whole, despite all of the battles she’s fought. They don’t hurt, her joints don’t click or stiffen when the weather changes, and they can do everything they’re supposed to do. Shouldn’t that be enough?

Gwen tugs off her gloves, raking her eyes slowly over her bared hands. Pale marks are scattered over her palms and fingers in dozens of different shapes, from thin white lines to small dots and blemishes. Patches of roughness dot the ends and bases of her fingers, slightly discolored and hard to the touch. She has faint memories of the blisters that came before, and of biting them before she knew it was best to leave them alone–and before she had the common sense to use something like a needle, rather than her teeth. She can even recall the origins of some of the scars, a few from ornery bugs and reptiles that scratched and bit, others from thorns of all sizes, the spines on chestnuts, or grating bark; one is from being careless cleaning her lance, and another is from similar thoughtlessness with her knife while gathering herbs…

The newer scars, a little brighter and sharper compared to the ones that have softened with time, she remembers far more clearly. Burns and small splotches on her knuckles, the blots of discoloration under a few fingernails that are slowly growing out…

Gwen flexes and curls her fingers again, still frowning. She combs her fingers through her hair, feeling the softness and watching her fingers slide easily through the groomed strands. After a beat she finds her eyes picking through the soft brown and noting every strand of silvery grey.

A frustrated sound bubbles in her throat and she pulls her hands from her hair. So what if her hair has gone grey in a few places? Y’shtola, Alphinaud and Alisaie all have hair white as salt don’t they? And Thancred’s is only a few shades off. Their hair color doesn’t bother _them_, does it? No. So she shouldn’t be bothered by hers, either. Besides, her hair is healthy, and that’s what really matters.

And the same goes for her hands. So what if they aren’t dainty or delicate. Or feminine. Or particularly soft. That’s…fine. At least, it should be. 

But it isn’t. In fact, that last little detail in particular has always bothered her.

_For some reason_. But her attempt to brush off this sudden resurgence of insecurity is less than successful. Her attempts at reason and logic aren’t making much headway, but she keeps trying anyway. _It’s not like I can do much about it anyway. The scars are here to stay, and I need the calluses. Even if I managed to get rid of them, I’d just get them right back. It’s not like I can stop using my sword. Everyone who wields a weapon or some kind of tool has them, too._

She shifts in her seat, picking at a spot in the crook of her thumb that is particularly pale and starting to crack. Her skin dries easily on top of everything else, and the cool Mor Dhonan air has been uncharacteristically dry all week. She flicks little flakes away, slouching down in her seat and glancing over the mass of scribbles that has consumed most of the poor, defenseless page.

Gwen sighs. She could have at least scribbled on a page that already had writing on it, so it might not have gotten so large as to waste a fresh one.

Gwen is busy rubbing moisturizing lotion into her hands when there’s a quiet knock on her door. It opens before she has a chance to give her visitor permission to enter. 

“Are you in, dove?” Thancred’s voice calls into her seemingly empty room.

“Here.” She lingers for a moment longer and then steps out of her bathroom, that scent of lavender and lemons following her as she finishes massaging the cream into the calluses on her palms. It won’t get rid of them, but it will soften them a little; and it will help mend the damage the dry air is causing.

She looks up, expecting to find Thancred waiting with a missive or some sort of assignment in hand, or in the middle of making himself comfortable. Instead he’s standing a few fulms from her desk with a curious look on his face. 

“You left your journal open,” he jerks his chin to indicate where it’s lying open, displaying the one blank page and it’s neighbor that’s covered with that massive scribble.

Gwen’s face heats, embarrassment and affront prickling up her back. She scurries over to her desk, mouth pressing into a thin line as she snaps her journal shut. She eyes him suspiciously, “Did you read it?”

“No.” Thancred gives her a lopsided smile and a little shrug, “Unless you count ‘noticing a rather large scribble’ as reading, that is.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, unconvinced. 

He puts up his hands, expression shifting to properly apologetic. “I swear, dove. I glanced at your desk and couldn’t help noticing, but I left it at that.” He gestures to the fulms between him and her desk to show that he hadn’t even gotten close to it.

Gwen huffs a sigh and smooths out her expression, trying to relax her shoulders and the tightness that’s started to coil in her chest. Considering she’d left it open and the scribble covers most of a page, it _would_ be rather hard not to notice it. And there wasn’t any writing that he could have read, either, so…it’s fine. 

“I know I’ve called your handwriting ‘scribbling’ before, but that seemed rather literal,” Thancred says, amusement lifting his conversational tone.

Another self-conscious bruise starts to ache, and the fog in her head gets a little denser and heavier. She purses her lips in a tight pout, “Hm,” and grabs her key, shoving her journal haphazardly into the top drawer.

_Just teasing is all. After all the jokes _I’ve_ made about my handwriting, it’s fair game…_ But that doesn’t work much better than telling herself ‘for some reason’ had earlier. She turns the key and the drawer locks with a little ‘click’ sound that’s only partially satisfying.

“Thinking to take up a career in abstract art?” 

She worries at the inside of her cheek and puts the key back in her pocket.

“…Or perhaps something is on your mind?”

Gwen almost instinctively glances at her hands, still the slightest bit slippery and only marginally softer, if at all. She hesitates before answering, and makes another effort to clear some of the aching fog away.

Perhaps, if he hadn’t made that comment, she could have told him… But perhaps not, and to think that way feels petty and spiteful. It’s hard to say, seeing how she hadn’t even been able to get herself to write anything, and that’s supposed to be so much easier than speaking. Her little insecurities are her own problem, particularly ones as… as…

She wants to call it– call_ all _of them ‘silly’ so that she can maybe dismiss them, so that they might shrink or ache a little less. 

Instead the word rings rather too derisively, dissonant but not out of tune like she hoped. It clings and resonates in the fog, her head now crowded _and_ loud, and gives the lingering ache a stronger edge. 

Rather than explain all that, or what has been bothering her for, really, far too long, Gwen makes a noncommittal sound and shrugs. For want of something to do, she moves to rearrange her desks and drag the reports she needs to work on to the front and center. “Not really.”

Silence hangs for a few seconds, and then Thancred makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement. A beat later her bed creaks when he sits on it. 

Reading missives and writing reports are just about the last thing she can focus on, far from her mind even as she looks right at them. She nudges the papers a little more and picks up her discarded gloves. 

Neither of them have said anything, or seem to intend to. The silence is quickly growing awkward.

Gwen turns and leans against her desk, trying to figure out how to ask Thancred why he stopped by in a way that won’t sound like she means to kick him out, even though she’s realized she doesn’t particularly want company right then. She only manages to come up with a few words, and none of them fit together in a way that doesn’t sound as clunky and awkward as she’s beginning to feel.

Her fingers itch with fidgety energy, but she doesn’t let herself reach for her hair again. She runs her fingers over her gloves instead, searching for any rips or tears to keep her hands busy. The stray threads here and there are allowed to stay, but anything more than that will need to be mended.

Thancred breaks the silence with an observation. “You without gloves is a rare sight.”

She looks up, blinking, “Is it?”

“One could say you’re always wearing them,” he says with his usual easy smile.

Gwen’s lips start to tug into a pout and she barely stops them. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Only a bit,” he replies. “You’re rarely without them, even on idle days.” After a beat he goes on, “I’ve always attributed it to your unique sense of fashion.”

“It’s no more so than yours,” Gwen insists, purposefully eyeing his assortment of belts and straps.

Thancred glances himself over and chuckles. “Alright, you have me there. The Scions are nothing if not uniquely dressed.” 

When she lets silence return once again rather than trying to make conversation he looks the slightest bit uncomfortable. “Is it? Personal preference, I mean.”

Gwen considers her hands, dry now and still smelling of lavender and lemon. It _is_ personal preference, but, well… “Yes. Though fashion has little to do with it, if I’m being honest.”

“Because you ever favor practicality, and Twelve forefend you stumble upon a plant that needs picking when your hands are unprotected?” He suggests with a wry smile.

His teasing doesn’t tickle like it should, inspiring wrinkles, tension and defensive static rather than amusement. But that’s not his fault–at least not entirely. Aching bruises don’t welcome any touch, no matter how lighthearted, and her mood has been on a downward slant since well before he’d barged into her room.

She looks down at her hands and all of the little pockmarks and splotches, groping for a reply. “Have _you_ ever grabbed a stinging nettle with your bare hands?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever felt the urge, no,” he drawls, smiling a little wider.

She wrinkles her nose, “It was an accident.”

“I didn’t want to assume,” he says airily. “Even so, my answer stands.”

Gwen hums vaguely and looks back at her gloves. 

Silence settles again. Thancred’s smile slowly flattens out, his attempted mirth drying up. He glances aside, looking a bit contemplative and perhaps a bit off-balance. 

A twinge of quiet guilt ripples through her and she shifts her weight in an effort to disperse or settle it. 

It’s been something of an off day and she’s not in the mood for talking, and _especially_ not teasing. There’s nothing wrong with that, everyone is a bit off sometimes. 

But shutting him down at every turn rather than simply telling him she doesn’t want to talk, or asking for a bit of solitude– _that’s_ what’s suddenly starting to bother her. It’s certainly not the friendliest or most effective way to handle the situation. 

Gwen scratches at the little cracks by her thumb, biting her cheek over another ripple of guilt and a twinge of apologetic discomfort. She’s well versed in the awkward, uncomfortable feeling of realizing too late that a normally chatty or cheery acquaintance doesn’t care for her company and is perhaps waiting for her to excuse herself.

She’s free to not want to talk, and free to be annoyed about being teased–particularly over things she’s a bit sensitive about. Her thoughts are far too fragile and taut for teasing and jests to feel like anything other jabs. 

But there’s the right way to go about addressing that… And then there’s what she’s doing.

She inhales and holds it for a minute, waiting for the pressure of her breath to clear her head and loosen her shoulders a little. She pushes back against the pall, the physical sensation giving her efforts an extra measure of steadiness and weight, and manages to make a small, clear spot where she can actually, properly _think_, at least for the moment. 

Her exhale is soft and controlled, cracking sharp-edged pieces of annoyance and irritation and allowing a measure of tension to bleed out of her posture. 

Alright. So tell him she doesn’t want to talk, then. And hint that her mood had been souring since before he arrived, so he doesn’t go on thinking it’s wholly his fault. And perhaps also mention that she hadn’t appreciated his comments about her handwriting or her gloves, lighthearted as he might have meant them.

Hm. Maybe leave that last part out until she’s feeling better, lest it sound a little too–

Thancred clears his throat, and she looks up again. He’s slouching just a little, his expression thoughtful even as the angle of his brow suggests regret. “I apologize for my comments, dove. I meant them only in jest. ‘Twas not my intention to upset you.” He pauses, maybe to make sure she’s actually listening.

Gwen blinks, distracted from her half-formed thoughts and the little aches that are trying to push in again. Jest? Upset? What, about the stinging nettle?

“Your spirits seemed to be in need of lifting and I thought I might make an attempt. Or three,” his mouth tilts in a slight, tentative smile for a moment. “But, well… Jokes do tend to be less amusing when they’re made at your own expense, hm? And you’ve never found commentary about your handwriting amusing.”

His mouth bends in a rueful smile that threatens to slip into a cringe and he tilts his head apologetically, “I didn’t mean to give offense, truly, but it was still… rather insensitive, truth be told. And uncharitable besides. I’m sorry.”

…Oh.

Tense, protective feelings soften and fall slack, and Gwen’s shoulders sag. She ducks her chin and twists her gloves in her hands, tickling of appreciation and gratitude twining oddly with another ripple of guilt.

They tease each other all the time, and trade plenty of lighthearted quips and comments at each others’, and their own, expense. How’s he supposed to know she’s not in the mood today if she doesn’t say so? Or what not to tease her about?

Oh, the problems that could be solved if she _talked_ and _explained herself_. Or if she didn’t get so upset about little things like having _rough hands_…

…It still aches, but a bit less.

Gwen realizes she’s very nearly slouching and straightens back up. Her throat feels a little tight and she swallows to loosen it, shaking her head to buy time. “It’s fine.”

Thancred tries to protest, “I–”

“You were just joking,” she insists, waving a hand. “I know. I’ve,” she hesitates, “just had a long day today and…it’s left me in a bit of a sour mood. It’s not your fault.”

He makes a sound of agreement, but only relaxes a bit. He doesn’t stare, but she’s aware that he’s paying close attention to her. Perhaps trying to see if he might be able to puzzle out what she’s thinking, or what made her day feel so long.

He’s not talking, either. Worried she’s more upset than she’s letting on? Or hesitant to say the wrong thing? Both? 

Well…that’s all fair. Seems the ball is in her court at the moment.

The fog is lifting and everything beneath it is in disarray; even so, picking up a few pieces and making something of them is significantly easier than it had been minutes ago, “So. I, ah… Heh, I don’t like comments about my writing, huh?”

Thancred blinks, not responding immediately in favor of trying to gauge her lighter tone. 

And then his expression lifts a little, one corner of his mouth ticking up. “Seeing how they’ve always proved to be a surefire way to make you stop writing, it seemed safe to assume as much.”

They didn’t make her _stop_ writing… Well, not always. She thought she’d been rather sneaky about that, as no one ever seemed to notice. Or maybe they’ve just never mentioned it. Hm. “Was it really that obvious?”

He chuckles quietly, “It’s not exactly a subtle response. But, credit where it’s due, you’ve always laughed it all off rather convincingly.”

A modicum of weight eases off her back and she almost laughs a little. A faint bit of weariness creeps in, slowly replacing the tension and bristling things that had wound her up so tightly. She half-wonders if it’s because her mood hadn’t actually been as self-perpetuating as it had felt, and now all that wasted energy is catching up with her. She can think about that later.

For now, though, she feigns shock, “Me? Not subtle?”

Thancred takes a half-second to study the tentative, apologetic look on her face. His small half-smile widens a little, “Inconceivable, I know.”

Gwen huffs a little laugh. She was never going to be a rogue or shinobi, Echo be damned. And she would never be cut out for espionage or spy work, either. One of these days she’d learn to accept it. Maybe.

Tenuous stiffness eases out of his expression and posture, and his exhale sounds both heavy and relieved. He leans back on his hands, relaxing into a comfortable slouch. “It also tends to wipe the smile off your face for a moment.”

Probably the moment it takes for her to figure out if they’re joking or being genuine about their criticism, and how she ought to respond. She thought she was better about hiding that, too. “Does it really?”

“Oh it does indeed.” He winces rather theatrically, “There’s one instance from your early days with the Scions, in particular, that springs to mind: Y’shtola interrupted a conversation to complain about the legibility of a report, and I saw your expression,” he puts on a bright smile and then passes a hand over his face, his expression flattening out into deadpan neutrality in its wake as if he were literally wiping the smile away, “so I gathered it was something of a delicate subject.”

Gwen hums, a few similar occurrences springing to mind even as that particular instance escapes her. It seemed many people, particularly new recruits, assumed the ‘Warrior of Light’ would have neater handwriting, or perhaps not be made to write her own reports. 

She cocks her head to one side and gives him an arch look, “I see that didn’t stop you, though.”

“I did _try _to be mindful,” Thancred defends. “But I’ll admit I got a little careless after hearing you make a few cracks of your own.” A pause, then he adds, “For the record, I use the term ‘scribbles’ with only the utmost fondness.”

He _would_. Gwen’s scoff almost sounds convincing until it’s interrupted by a laugh. 

Thankfully that gets Thancred chuckling and smiling more openly again, and the last of the lingering awkwardness in the air fully dissipates.

As the quiet mirth peters out into comfortable silence, thoughtfulness starts to tug at the edges of Thancred’s expression. “Care to tell me what it is that soured your mood? Did something happen while you were out?”

“Ah, no, nothing like that.” Gwen looks over her palm again, flexing her calloused fingers, “There was just… a passing comment that,” she pauses, shuffling words like cards to find the best phrasing, “hit a little wrong.”

“A lot of that going around today,” he mumbles. His gaze flicks curiously from her face to the hand she’s examining, flicking back up a moment later, “What did they say?”

There’s an old snake bite scar on her wrist, a pair of dots that she always seems to forget about. She bends and straightens her wrist, watching the twin blemishes squish and stretch. At length she says, “It’s silly, really.” 

The word manages to stick like she wanted it to earlier. The fog becomes more cottony and solid now, a bit thicker, maybe, but also tangible. She can finally grab it and start pushing it down and out of the way.

He tips his head against one shoulder and lifts his other hand to make a circular gesture, prompting her to continue despite the apparent ‘silliness’.

Explanations feel insubstantial, and ‘silly’ suddenly begins sticking to too many things. Sentences slide from her grasp when she tries to pull them to her tongue, and it takes her a moment to grab pieces and knot them together. She doesn’t need to go into too much detail, and admitting that a child had been the one to say it feels odd somehow. “It was a comment about my hands.”

Thancred blinks once. Twice. He lifts his head, “Your hands?”

Gwen dips her chin slightly and turns one hand palm up, displaying her collection of calluses and scars, “They said they were,” she flexes her fingers, “tough.”

He studies her hand with the sort of look that says he doesn’t entirely understand what she wants him to see. “And you’re not too fond of that, I take it?”

She shrugs, withdrawing to scratch at that patch of dry skin again. She might need to see about mixing up something stronger if that lotion alone doesn’t clear it up.

He leans forward a little, studying her almost too closely. 

Gwen is suddenly uncomfortably aware of herself, from the way she’s standing, to the edge of the desk pushing into her backside, to her bare hands.

“Well I–” She fumbles, a fresh rush of embarrassment warming her face and sending haphazard attempts to minimize, evade or dismiss the idea skittering across her tongue. She can’t completely swallow them, but she doesn’t spew them out, either. “They’re not wrong, right? I mean,” she shows her palm and wiggles her fingers to remind him of the various blemishes. “My hands have always been rough and… not all that feminine, really.”

Curiosity and a smidgen of confusion trickle across his expression. Something starts to piece together behind that attentive gaze as he offers, “They’re not delicate, certainly.”

“Or soft,” Gwen adds, a little mutedly.

His gaze drifts from her face to her shoulders to her hands and then back. Suddenly the gathering pieces meld together into an epiphany, his curious look shifting into one of thoughtful consideration and understanding. “Not like a noble’s, maybe, or one who’s never had to do their own work. Your hands aren’t pampered,” he concedes with a small nod, “but they’re soft– in their own, different sort of way.”

Surprise, disbelief and dry amusement at the ridiculous claim combust into a small, short laugh that bursts from her lips before she can stop it.

Her doubt seems to spur him on, if anything. He sits up straighter, as if welcoming the challenge, “You don’t agree?”

“I mean…” She trails off, rubbing callused fingertips together.

“Your hands aren’t clouds or sun-kissed rose petals or any of the other trite metaphors poets are so fond of; they’re more like well-worn leather or a favorite book.”

Gwen’s brows draw together quizzically. She hadn’t really expected him to claim her hands were soft in the first place, let alone provide such odd sounding comparisons. Leather and books?

“Am I wrong?” he asks, utterly confident.

She hums vaguely, deciding to humor him and turn the suggestions over rather than wave them off. She starts to absently trace the edges and patterns on her metal bangles, keeping busy while she thinks.

“Worn leather” brought to mind a pair of raptorskin gloves she used to have. She’d saved up for _moons_ to buy them and then wore them nonstop for years before they met their untimely end when a misjudged jump sent her skidding down a rocky ravine, when the coarse stone had shredded her gloves instead of her hands. They’d been rather inflexible when she’d bought them, barely having enough yield to keep them from being outright impractical. She hadn’t fully noticed them growing more comfortable as she forced the leather to flex and twist and lose its rigidity; reluctant bends had evolved into stiff creases that softened into thick wrinkles and crow’s feet, and the color had faded as the scaly texture gradually smoothed out in the most abused spots.

Gwen makes a thoughtful sound, imagining her fingers were running over that faded leather rather than the cloth of her newer gloves. Once she’d properly worn them in she had considered them to be soft, actually, now that she’s thinking about it. But, like Thancred had said, a different kind of soft than pillows and cotton; one that was flexible and textured and durable, tough but not rough or unpleasant.

She shifts her weight a little, supposing worn leather isn’t as odd of a comparison as she’d initially thought. “Hmm. I suppose ‘worn leather’ isn’t inaccurate.” 

The other, however, is a bit too misshapen for her to get her thoughts around it. She asks, almost incredulously, “Are books soft in Sharlayan?” 

Thancred’s grin and amused little chuckle say that was the sort of response he’d expected. “The pages of an old, oft-read tome have a certain softness to them, do they not?”

Gwen cocks her head, thinking of ancient tomes with fragile pages that sag and flop like cloth. ‘Soft’ would be an apt description, though the word still doesn’t call old paper and books to mind, nor thoughts of worn leather.

She tucks her gloves under her arm and looks at her hands again, eyes and thoughts now clear of the prickly, caustic fog. They don’t actually look any different, of course; but she _is_ able to view them a little differently. She admits slowly, “I… Alright, I never thought of that.”

Fabric shifts and the bedframe creaks when Thancred stands. He’s wearing a suspiciously confident grin, evidence of his satisfaction at his apparent victory, and takes her hands in his. His are larger than hers, though not dramatically so, and feel pleasantly warm. They’re rough and scarred too, she knows, but most of that is hidden beneath his gloves. He’s in no hurry as he lifts her hands to his face and turns her palms up, his grin softening and losing a bit of its boisterous edge.

Gwen is just starting to wonder what he’s up to when he ducks his head, touching his lips to one palm and then the other. Warm sparks dance up her arms and her heart skips a beat and then sags pleasantly.

He lingers, his gaze brimming with fondness and his short beard scratching her fingers, looking so unabashedly pleased with himself. He murmurs against her palms, voice low and smooth, “I adore these gentle hands of yours; these valiant leaves on which I read of deeds unmatched and futures bright.”

The sparks tickle and burn and she can’t help her mouth curling into a giddy little smile. She shrinks down shyly and glances aside, the weight of his attention growing pleasantly distracting. She giggles softly and tells herself it’s because he’s being so very sweet yet simultaneously ridiculous, and _not_ because of the gratifying warmth his thoughtful flattery is inspiring.

He kisses her palms again, a little more slowly, “These birds that fly; these roots that anchor; these balms that soothe; these moorings that hold the world in place; these shelters for my weary heart.”

Gwen’s face is burning and her shoulders are hiking up all on their own. The tickling has grown into squirming, a sudden welling of excitable energy and the desperate need to do _something_ to try and get rid of it swelling so quickly she feels as if she might burst. Protests are dashing across her tongue too quickly for her to get any of them out, fluttering around like butterflies she can’t manage to grab. 

She sputters, “A-alright, I get it–” 

Thancred grins like a cat and tightens his hold before she can pull away, his voice losing its soothing, poetic lilt as he continues, “Such wondrous blessings, my dove’s wings–”

“You can stop now,” she insists, a little shrilly. Her ears are burning as hot as her face, and she can’t free herself from his grasp. It’s like she’s being tickled, slightly frantic laughter bubbling past her lips despite her attempts to hold it at bay.

He drags her hands apart and over his shoulders like he means to manhandle her into embracing him. “–that carry her to the far ends of the realm.”

“Alright, alright, _enough_.” He releases her wrists and she quickly snatches her arms to her chest, heart trilling, thoughts fumbling and face red as a rolanberry. Yes, yes, her hands are wonderful and somehow ‘soft’ and-–wings? Whatever! He’s made his point!

“And deliver her home again.” Quick as lightning he leans in and locks his arms around her waist, clutching her tightly against him. His tone is positively _saccharine_, “To rest sweetly in my embrace.” 

Her arms are trapped between them _and_ she’s pinned against her desk, the clever bastard. “You _cheeky_–”

He leans down to wheedle in her ear, “Oh, my dearest dove–”

She cranes her head away from his with a groan of protest, wiggling her arms furiously and slowly working them free.

“–who deigns to roost with me–”

Gwen whines, “You are–”

“–though gods alone–” 

“–such–”

“–know how I ever–”

“–an _arse!” _

“–came to be so very blessed.” 

Gwen finally frees one arm and wastes no time palming his face and pushing his head away. 

Thancred is positively _cackling_, nuzzling into her warding hand, “Ah, how could I forget? My dearest dove cares not for gilded words and effulgent praise.”

“‘How could you’ indeed,” she replies, her attempt at a dry tone ruined by half-suppressed giggles. Ye gods, how does he even come up with this nonsense, anyway?

Thancred’s embrace loosens from restraining to comfortable as he frees a hand to pry hers from his face. “What can I say? Tis a bard’s nature to give themselves over to inspiration when it strikes.”

“And hands are that inspiring, are they?” Gwen asks, reigning in her giggling and shoving down on the excess energy.

“More so the one to whom they’re attached, truth be told,” he admits. “But I imagine my dove would have struggled mightily to perform all of those acts of heroism and legendary deeds without them.” 

The word ‘dove’ makes her heart tickle and skip despite the fact he’s used it hundreds of times. 

Truth be told it _is _a little, tiny bit flattering, and plenty entertaining, to hear him go on and on. But it’s mostly just _mortifying_. 

She does her best to keep any and all satisfaction to herself, only huffing an agreeable laugh, “I’m inclined to agree.”

The cant of his smile and the smug glimmer in his eye say Thancred is _quite_ pleased with himself, so much so that Gwen has half a mind to turn aside when he leans in. 

But, well… She _is_ in a better mood now. And, all the flowery babble aside, his comparisons to well-worn leather and a favored book were rather thoughtful and sweet. Almost sweet enough to shift her dour perspective on the matter.

Gwen decides not to turn aside, and instead meets and returns his kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks @rhymingteelookatme as always for being the bestest beta reader :D And supplying 90% of Thancred’s corny poetry lol


	16. Rambling about Gwen, her journal, and Thancred's snooping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an ask on tumblr. Mostly rambling, but also a sizeable snippet from a draft that will probably never wind up posted.
> 
> Full question: _"I do have another, unprompted question that keeps coming to mind whenever I read Gwencred: What happens when she learns he's been swiping and reading her journal all this time? Does she know already and "allows it"? It upsets me whenever he does it, as it's such a perfect not-so-great habit for him (and one of those "wish I'd thought of that" things)."_

This answer is best described as, “A collection of thoughts interspersed with writings”. It got pretty long, oof haha

Gwen becomes a bit suspicious that Thancred is occasionally a little _too_ insightful around the time of Heroes of the Hour and Litany Of Peace MSQ in Dragonsong War/Post-HVW through a combination of little slips of the tongue on his part and catching him in her room once, which he was able to play off…mostly. 

I haven’t hammered out the exact moments of her suspicion and gradual realization, or any sort of confrontation about it, direct or otherwise, but I _do_ have a relatively solid handle on Gwen’s line of thought– where it begins, where she goes while overthinking it, and where it ends up. And I also have roughly written out a point where she’s presented with proof that he was most definitely stealing her saved pages and reading her journal right at the end of StB.

—

Her initial reaction was to kind of try and brush it off. “What? No, no he wouldn’t…” But then she thought about it for a little bit and… “…except yeah, he juuust might.”

She had bigger things on her mind then and half-wanted to think she’d imagined it or, if she hadn’t, that it was a one-off situation. She stewed on it for a little bit and, though she never caught him trying to read over her shoulder or going through her saved pages, found herself torn between ‘yes, he did’ and ‘no, he didn’t’ and not entirely sure how she felt about it. 

Rather than accuse him or try to confront him about it, she decided to simply keep her journal close or on her person rather than leaving it in her desk or in her room, and was also a bit more sparing about what she wrote in it. She covered the change of behavior by claiming she had a lot on her mind and was frequently busy, so she needed to be able to take any opportunity she could get to write. 

In the following few weeks it seemed like Thancred wasn’t _quite _so insightful or on-the-ball in trying to get her talking about what was on her mind, or picking at it in ways that offered new perspectives.

But then, strangely, everything seemed to go back to normal. Odd. Perhaps it had been her imagination the whole time. Or maybe he’d gotten sneakier. (it was the latter)

Which left her feeling a bit…paranoid. Still, she avoided confronting him. Partially because she simply didn’t want to, and partially because she still hadn’t fully sorted out her feelings yet. She didn’t want to be wrong and, more subconsciously, she didn’t want it to be necessary/didn’t want it to be true, in a way.

Nothing much seemed to change on his end, as he didn’t act differently or treat her differently, nor draw any conclusions about how she was keeping her journal close aside from one teasing inquiry as to why she was suddenly carrying it around like a teddy bear.

He’d been fairly aware, as usual, of when to seek her out and provide a bit of company, and that hadn’t stopped during her ‘trial period’ either. And he barely missed a beat in terms of talking with her and giving advice, so…?

But the more she thought about it, the more she came to think that brief period sort of was, and sort of _wasn’t_,proof. They were both apart for a portion of that time, meaning he would need time to catch up to her current situation, snooping or not. Whereas before, when she’d begun to be suspicious, they’d been in relatively constant contact. It’s a lot easier to be insightful about things you know about, isn’t it? And even then, when she thought he’d snooped, he didn’t _always_ have the right answer or good advice anyway; and he didn’t always say or do the right thing. He wasn’t perfect, and he had his own life and his own problems and responsibilities to worry about. So was this even really all that odd? Or was she just reading into it because of her own suspicions? 

She talked herself in circles like this for quite a while, torn about whether or not she was being paranoid and what she should actually try to do about it. Confronting him would be the simplest plan, but she really needed to have her feelings on the matter sorted out first, right? and what if she was wrong? Then what? 

And then he had all gone back to normal, even though she’d been more protective of a journal… But perhaps he was just a _bit_ more clever than her and had managed to read it again. While that wasn’t ideal, if it was the case, being able to lean on his insight and his advice again had been a relief…

…Oh. 

So… If he _was _snooping, which she couldn’t fully bring herself to admit, then it….was helpful. Kinda.

She didn’t _like_ that he might have been reading her journal or prying, but at the same time, if it helped him talk to her, and thus helped her…? They were still close, they still talked, they still leaned on each other…

Hm… 

After a bit of debate, and rather at a loss for what to make of the whole thing or what she should do about it, Gwen stopped being quite so protective of her journal. In part, she was simply tired of it, it was another thing to have to think about all the time, and partially she wanted to see what would happen, or if she’d catch him again. _Then_, she told herself, they’d have to have a talk. After seeing that nothing she wrote ever really came back to bite her –unless she counted Thancred being more aware of her mood or the increased likelihood of efforts to assist with whatever problem she was tied up in as ‘biting’– she gradually went back to writing as she always had, with a few exceptions, such as her suspicions or venting about friends (which she never did much of anyway).

Her feelings about the whole thing were, are, and will continue to be rather complicated. But they’ve simplified somewhat since the beginning.

She lowkey wants to write something like ‘so are you gonna fess up or do I actually have to catch you red-handed’ in her journal and wait for him to find it. But then she’d have to, you know, _deal with the results_, and she isn’t entirely sure what would happen, so she’s held off so far.

By late-StB and into ShB, after sort of settling with the whole idea, her mindset is hovering around something like: 

– A little bit still annoyed for violating her privacy, and a little bit… nervous and hurt, in a sense, that he hasn’t come clean about it and seems to have no plan to. At the same time as she understands why that’s a rather intimidating proposition, she wishes he’d trust her a bit more and not feel like he had to keep it secret.

– Being more mindful about her phrasing but not censoring herself entirely, which usually results in a lot more writing, marking out and then re-writing to reword and rephrase things. Annoying as it is, and as little as she likes the bit of paranoia and worry (worse at sometimes than others) that inspires it, the rewording and rephrasing does actually help her think about things a bit more thoroughly and carefully than she would otherwise.

– Over time she came to appreciate that he doesn’t share her secrets with anyone (or maybe he does on certain occasions, because sometimes Y’shtola is far _too _aware of her health) and he hasn’t used anything he’s read against her, at least not so directly as using it as justification to dismiss or discredit her opinions and concerns, nor does it ever seem to affect or change his view of her–negatively and/or outwardly, at least. 

(((That’s not to say he hasn’t ever been less-than-happy with something he’s read, particularly about himself, but he’s the type to brood and stew on things rather than immediately go running to confront her over it. Eventually he remembers that he has his own opinions, gripes and flaws, and just because he can work them out in his head while she needs to write them out on paper doesn’t make hers any more intentionally hurtful or antagonizing than his.)))

– She tries to look out for the Scions’ mental health, mostly through making sure they rest and getting them talking about their problems even as she tends to bottle up her own, and reading her journal seems to be Thancred’s way to look after her. He uses her journal like a guide for when and how she needs a hand talking out a problem, or when someone needs to make her step away and breathe for a minute. He offers his opinion and advice and helps her work through hard topics, but he doesn’t tell her _what_ to think. He presses on certain issues when he thinks he needs to, sometimes a little too hard, but in the end the questions and pushing serve to make Gwen reevaluate and reaffirm her reasoning for her decision, and thus lead to her holding to it more strongly. Once she’s proved her convictions he doesn’t try overly hard to change her mind, even when it isn’t necessarily a decision he agrees with. (“I was _really_ hoping you’d change your mind about fighting two primals at once. This did not go as planned. But you’ve made up your mind, so…”) 

– It is a _Struggle_ for Gwen to fully explain and vocalize her concerns and worries, particularly when it comes to more tangled or complex issues and things she blames herself for. Most because she’s self-conscious about rambling or ‘word vomiting’, which tends to happen when one is in the midst of trying to process their thoughts and feelings on a situation, and also when one feels they need to justify _why_ their thoughts are what they are; and, going along with that, she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing or give the wrong impression of a situation. Writing things down gives her the chance to work stuff out herself and get all of the pieces in order and in the right place, even though it doesn’t grant much opportunity for outside perspective or trying to view things from a new/different angle. 

And once it’s written down and in order, _then_ she’s ok talking about it. But, ah, well, you know… it’s all worked out and in order, so nevermind, don’t worry about it.

How much she really needs someone to be able to fill in the gaps and ‘see the end picture so they can help sort the pieces’ in order to properly discuss or address whatever is bothering her is really brought to light during Stormblood when she and Thancred spend moons apart. Gwen finds that, even after she’s sisterly-levels of close with Alisaie and Lyse and even after they prove how well they know her and how she tends to think/act, she can’t really talk with them quite the same way as she can with Thancred. They don’t mind her rambling, but they both tended to try and stop her and address each little thing as they came up, rather than going along and letting her train of thought keep going forward, either giving minor fixes along the way or waiting till the end and addressing all at once like Thancred tended to.

Why, though? Other than personality, anyway.

Well, it’s easier to reach the finish line when he already knew where it was, which meant he used her rambling to fill in a few holes and adjust the route, rather than trying to blindly follow the winding path she was making.

By reading her journal Thancred can much more easily ‘meet her halfway’ or jump straight to the end or the important parts of a problem because he already has a general understanding of the situation and her mindset. Already being aware of what she was thinking let him more easily straighten out crooked ideas or misconceptions and redirect lost trains of thought, which helped her clear up questions or finally reach a resolution. Talking with someone else also offers a chance for different perspectives, and helps her get better about reevaluating situations and problems. 

In particular, being able to reliably talk to Thancred got her in the habit of seeking _advice_ for a current/upcoming problem, rather than asking for an opinion after the fact. 

((Her time in Doma in StB, aside from making her realize how bad she is about talking to others about her problems in general, also served to make her reassess how she goes about explaining whatever is on her mind, as well as explaining why she’s feeling or thinking that way. She learns that a bit of word vomit while she gets her thoughts together isn’t bad so long as she doesn’t start talking in circles, and she both gets quicker at organizing her thoughts and better and maintaining a steady, if not straight, stream of consciousness/line of thought in a sense, as opposed to jumping around topics or cutting herself off. She was more open with Alisaie pre-ShB. At the end of 5.0, when she realizes why she’s been so off and what the light is doing to her, she works harder to be more open with everyone –and particularly Y’shtola where it concerns her health– and rely less on her journal in general)) 

tl;dr: she’s come to view it as sort of a good-but-not-great thing, though she wouldn’t go so far as to call it a ‘necessary evil’. She still isn’t entirely happy with it, but she appreciates the results and the motives/thought behind it, so she has sort of decided to just leave it be for now. She still hopes Thancred will fess up on his own one day. The longer that doesn’t happen, the more tempted she is to try and find a way to bring it up.

—  


Post-”The Call” I loosely headcannon’d that Urianger came to Ala Mhigo to both check on Thancred and support the other Scions. While Thancred is being transported back to Mor Dhona, Urianger reluctantly approaches Gwen and gives her some papers he found in Thancred’s possession (probably his pocket). He claims he didn’t read much, just enough to recognize the handwriting and realize that they were writings rather than correspondence or some missive that Thancred had intended to deliver. He doesn’t really sugarcoat it, “They were in his possession, though I cannot claim to know why. You must needs ask him once he hath awakened.”

Feeling particularly out of sorts for a variety of reasons, Gwen admits that she’s suspected it for a while, “But I didn’t try to find out for sure.” There has always been a nasty little question poking around about how much Thancred truly knew her or just what she wrote, which was most of the reason she never tried to confront him or catch him in the act. She more or less knew, but sorta-kinda didn’t _want_ to know, and she honestly was able to ignore that poking little question more often than not.

I actually had written out a bit of her talking it out with him, so I’ll put it here as I’m pretty sure I’m never actually gonna write that particular scenario out in full. Somewhere before this particular dialogue, Gwen mention that her writings in her journal are ‘rambling bits and pieces’:

> “If thou wouldst allow me a presumption.”

> Gwen glanced curiously at him and nodded.

> “To mine eyes it doth appear as though he used those ‘rambling bits and pieces’ of thine thoughts, as thou so phrased it, to try and provide a solution for thine ills.” 

> “I–” Gwen paused, her mind all but stopping for a moment while she considered that. The idea had occurred to her a while back now, though she’d wondered if it had merely been an excuse. “That– Well…”

> “I will not claim to know his mind, but I do know _him_, and through that mayhap thou mightest find insight. I have no answers, only speculations, but I would share them, if thou art willing to listen?”

> Gwen nodded, the motion helping to get her brain working again.

> The Elezen took a slow breath, the expression on his face speaking of intense focus dedicated to choosing his words. Eventually he spoke, “Tis my understanding that you oft sought him for comfort and to confide thy troubles, even outside of thine writing, yes?”

> Gwen nodded slowly.

> “Why?”

> “Well, he…” She paused. Her mouth turned down in a slight frown, descriptions and explanations slipping through her fingers like fine sand. ‘Part of his charm, back before the Banquet when he cared more about that sort of thing, had been being approachable and easy to talk to’ seemed insubstantial, not to mention it was so far in the past now; ‘he always had sound advice, or he could at least put stuff in perspective or say it some way that made me consider it differently’ felt off because she didn’t know how big of a hand her journal had had in that, so…

> “He offered assurance, counsel and a steady hand in equal measure when thou wert in need of them?” Urianger offered.

> That was basically what she was thinking, yes. Gwen nodded slowly.

> “While his words may not have been entirely his own, I should think there was more to his reassurances than merely parroting thine tumultuous writings back to thee, correct?”

> Gwen’s lingering frown pulled slightly to one side. She hadn’t really thought about that, but… it was accurate. Her eyes wandered and she dipped her chin in another nod.

> “He did not merely read and repeat thine own troubled words in an effort to be the answer to thine problems. Rather he gathered and deciphered thine scattered thoughts and made of them tools that thou couldst use to craft thine own solution.”

> Well… Well, that was rather accurate, too, if a bit overly-poetic. Thancred had always given guidance, advice and his own opinion, but he’d never explicitly given her _instructions_ or _answers_–at least not directly. She’d had to settle her doubts and fears herself, he’d just… offered a steadying hand and a little push.

> Urianger let that hang for a moment before quietly offering, “I should think a man who knew thee naught would struggle with such a task, even with thine journal; a map is only so much help to a traveler in unknown surroundings, particularly when they know not how to read it.”

> Gwen adjusted her gloves with little tugs and twisted her bracelets, burning a little energy in an attempt to keep her thoughts from running off without her while she considered that. It was an interesting point. _Hm. No wonder Thancred could read my botany notes so quickly. He had practice_. “That’s,” she admitted slowly, voice soft and withdrawn, “not inaccurate, I guess. But that doesn’t change the fact he hid it from me.”

> “Nay, it doth not.” Urianger said with a long-suffering sigh that wasn’t aimed at her. “Nor doth it excuse his disregard for thine privacy. Know that I do not condone his methods, well-intentioned as they may have been.”

> Well-intentioned. She hadn’t really let intentions weigh in on her consideration very much. Somewhere in her mind she’d told herself he meant well, but the idea hadn’t held a lot of weight until just then. Intentions _matter_, do they not? Sometimes? At least a little?

> After the silence had stretched and settled comfortably, Urianger spoke again, “I cannot speak for him, nor any other, but if thou wouldst allow me one more presumption?”

> His perspective had been a bit uplifting so far, and it had certainly gotten her thoughts moving again. Plus, his voice was a welcome alternative to the silence and the chattering worries and questions filling up her thoughts. “Please.”

> Urianger huffed softly and nodded, folding his arms with a look of serious consideration. “Our dear friend is a fool, as we all know, but he is not foolish. I am sure he knew the fine line he walked every time he stole into thy mind and with every occasion that he put his discoveries to use. To blunder or slip would have aroused suspicion, just as would being too brazen. Thus doth he live in hypocrisy with his decision: believing his actions, if not righteous, sufficiently judicious to merit repetition, even as he maketh every effort to hide them from thy sight that he might not be made to throw himself upon thy mercy or beg clemency, nor face thy retribution should he be denied.

> “Whatever his reasons, he knowingly risked thine trust for the sake of insight, even as the ramifications for his actions hung heavier with every repetition and each day he chose continued secrecy over transparency.”

> “And soon it was too big to even hope to get out from underneath,” Gwen mumbled.

> Urianger nodded. “He is not so naïve as to believe that, should his well-intentioned subterfuge be brought to light, thou wouldst merely take umbrage with the moment at hand and dig no deeper. Thou wouldst likely not assume the revelatory act to be the initial occurrence, nor a singular one, which would surely lead thee to ponder prior instances. To wit, his every act, every conversation and moment of insight, would be called into question and scrutinized under a lense of doubt, hindsight and damaged trust. Thus he found yet another justification for his secrecy.” He gestured vaguely between the both of them with a sardonic arch of one brow, “In that, at least, it appears he was right to worry.”

> Gwen rocked back and then forward, mouth twisting in a grimace. At the same time as it sounded a little paranoid and ‘worst case scenario’, that line of thinking was perfectly reasonable. Even if she hadn’t been somewhat aware of his prying, Urianger presenting her with solid proof that Thancred had stolen her private thoughts even once would be enough to make her wonder, at least briefly, if it had happened before.

> Her suspicion, and her reaction to finding out what he’d been doing, were reasonable things to worry about. Maybe Thancred didn’t quite follow the lines of thought Urianger presented, but she doubted the Elezen was too off the mark.

> Gwen wanted to think Thancred didn’t need to worry so much. It would be rough, but surely they would be able to work it out–after trust was damaged, after uncomfortable questions, after time and a lot of work. And even then, once the dust had settled, they wouldn’t really be the same.

> Or would they, maybe? ‘They’ hadn’t changed overmuch since she began to suspect he’d been reading her journal, after all.

> But ‘not overmuch’ isn’t ‘at all’, and suspicions weren’t the same as proof or a confession.

> Whatever happened, and however it turned out, ‘they’ would not be the same if he ever came clean or was caught in the act. What would change and how much, and what would recover, was near-impossible to guess.

> Right to worry indeed…

> Gwen huffed softly, realizing her expression had started to tighten into a cringe.

> Seeing that she’d had enough time to let that sink in, Urianger continued, “And for his perilous duplicity Thancred was rewarded with the means to better understand thee, and thus did he learn how to grant thee and thy troubled mind a modicum of succor. He gave thee clarity when thine thoughts grew clouded, and crafted stability and from thine tremulous doubts.”

> That was a more poetic and metaphoric way to describe it than Gwen could have ever come up with, but that didn’t make it any less accurate. She shifted in her seat, glancing down at her hands and her nails, chipped and picked down to nubs.

> “Pray consider: of what value would that be to one who cared naught for thee?”

Urianger is best wingman ha.

Best wingman who, notably, does _not_ tell Thancred that Gwen had not only already been suspicious (for quite a while) that he’d been reading her journal, but now _knows it for a fact_. His reasons basically boil down to: 

1) Plain and simple, it’s just not his business. It isn’t Urianger’s place to bring up the matter _for_ Gwen, regardless of the fact she’d had her own suspicions before he approached her on the Source. He has no right to try and force the issue in her place, directly or via hints/subtlety, especially when she both didn’t express any desire for him to do so and hadn’t made any attempts to bring up her concerns or confront Thancred herself. This whole thing is _their_ problem that they have to solve themselves in their own way, and he can’t just insert himself into it–at least not more than he already has. Him revealing (but in actuality _confirming_) Thancred’s snooping to Gwen was an entirely different situation than telling Thancred that he done been found out. And, after the fact, he’s a little torn whether or not he even should have told Gwen what he’d discovered in the first place.

2) Gwen continued writing in her journal despite knowing her thoughts weren’t private, and seemingly didn’t make any efforts to make her journal or saved pages more difficult to access (in the long run), or at least she didn’t do anything obvious that might have alerted Thancred that he’d been found out. Why? How much did the whole thing even bother her, anyway? He couldn’t really tell–partially because even _Gwen_ didn’t know how she felt about it, even after being suspicious for so long. She wasn’t very outwardly upset at his revelation, but the whole thing happened shortly after Thancred _lost his soul_, so she had much bigger concerns at the time. How much did that influence her feelings on the matter? Probably a lot. When the dust settles and they’re reunited again, what will happen? Urianger has no idea. It’s _Gwen’s_ issue to confront and resolve, and attempting to speak for her just runs the risk of giving the wrong impression, creating false expectations, putting words in mouths and making the whole thing a _mess_.

3) It wouldn’t have done any good, either right then or over the long-term. Thancred was clearly already in some shit by the time Urianger arrived on the First, what with dealing with being stranded on his own on a strange world, raising little Minfilia and trying to get his own thoughts and emotions in order. He already had enough going on that he wasn’t handling well, and telling him, “Hey that thing you were doing to try and be helpful even though it would probably utterly ruin your relationship with Gwen if she found out about it? Gwen found out about it. Because of me. I’m the one who told her.” would do nothing but give him more problems. It would be another burden for him to carry and be angry, stressed and worried about. He already had situations that he couldn’t resolve or ‘deal with’ himself in the form of being stuck on the First, Minfilia and Mini-filia, and then the revelation of Urianger’s prophetic vision of the Scions and Gwen dying; telling him he’d been found out would just be another thing simply beyond his ability to resolve, which would mean another thing for him to agonize over and stew on until Gwen arrived… whenever that finally happened. Not to mention that, if Urianger chose not to come clean himself, Thancred would probably quickly figure out he had been the one to tell her, and that would only make a bigger, more complicated mess and more hurt feelings, which neither of them needed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the ever wonderful @evangeline-cross and @rhymingteelookatme for beta-reading and helping with Urianger’s dialogue XDDD


	17. Untitled drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got an idea for a little thing. Tried to write some context, and it didn’t work. 
> 
> Basically, Thancred was on a dangerous assignment and suddenly went radio-silent. The Scions started getting reports about worrying rumors, and there was no word from him one way or the other. Then he didn’t return home when he should have. Days later he finally arrived, thoroughly dusty, a little harried and a little bruised, but otherwise hale and whole.

When they were finally alone Gwen eagerly closed the space between them, craving simple closeness as much as touch, reassurance and a dozen other things. She lifted a hand to his face and smoothed the other over his shoulder, bubbly relief melting into giddy fondness. She smiled, small and warm, “I missed you.”

Thancred drew her closer with a smile that made the corner of his eye wrinkle. Then he titled his head to one side, smile shifting into a cocky smirk before he leaned down to brush his lips against hers. “I was certainly gone for a bit, wasn’t I?” 

Gwen hummed, savoring the tingly warmth and quiet contentment that flowed into her through his hands and his mouth. When they parted she guided him to press his uncovered temple against hers, the simple but intimate contact a gratifying, stable thing. She took a long, slow breath that smelled of road dust, dried sweat and days of ceaseless travel. 

When the warmth and relief of being reunited finally began to settle, the anxiousness and worry that had meddled with her sleep and had her pacing and fidgeting so restlessly drifted to the forefront of her thoughts again. _You’ve never been _this _late before, especially not without sending word. I was ready to go searching for you. _Thankfully it was an easy thing to let go of.

She hesitated, considering keeping it to herself. But the truth was heavy, uncomfortably so, and it would be better to break it apart herself rather than risk some of it spilling out somewhere else. She smiled again and lifted her tone in an effort to shape the words, “You really…had me worried for a minute, there,” into something light and teasing. But her eyes and the little waver of her tone betrayed the real shape of it, she knew.

Thancred’s expression softened, his gaze warming a little as his head leaned more heavily against hers. “Oh? Just one?” He teased.

A small laugh bubbled up in her throat, “Maybe more like two or three.”

Rather than try to wheedle at her a bit more, he said, “T’would seem I was due for some sort of harrowing something or other after all those comments about how smoothly my last assignments have gone. Lesson learned.” A smile tugged at his mouth that was just the vaguest bit rueful, “Apologies, dove.”

Gwen hummed, nuzzling his temple. He was safe, and he was home, hale and whole; that was what mattered. She closed her eyes and turned to brush her nose against his cheek. He mirrored the movement, bringing his forehead to rest comfortably against hers.

They stayed that way, content to be there, leaning on one another and sharing their breaths in calm, comfortable silence. The moment expanded gradually, like a growing breeze, coming to fill her thoughts and push away the heavier worries of the previous days. Relief tugged at the knots in her chest and chipped at the rigid line of her spine as she relaxed bit by bit, soothed by the shared stillness. Soon enough her knots were undone and her posture was softening and bending. 

Gwen made a contended little sound, feeling lighter and looser than she had in days. She opened her eyes to find him watching her and looking quietly pleased. She held his face in her hands and stroked lightly with her fingers, feeling skin and cloth and stubble, “’S rude to keep a lady waiting for _days_ like that, you know.”

Thancred chuckled. “I’m aware.” His eye smoldered, falling half-shut as one of his hands drifted slowly up her side and the other curled into her coat, “Rest assured, I have every intention to make amends.”

She blushed and he grinned, always so pleased to be the cause of it.

Gwen asked, despite herself, “I don’t suppose those ‘amends’ might include a promise not to scare me like that again.”

Thancred’s sigh made his shoulders sink. He lifted his hands to curl around her wrists and squeezed once, gentle but firm. When his grip loosened he let his fingers meander along the inside of her forearms. “Bit unfair, I think,” he drawled, “telling me not to make you worry. _You_, of all people.” 

Her forehead wrinkled against his as her lips gathered into a pout. “Hey…”

He closed his mouth over a chuckle and nuzzled her forehead until it smoothed out again. “We both know neither of us could rightly promise such a thing, much as we might like to.” His tone was partially chiding, partially sympathetic, and partially a reminder –for himself as much as her, by the sound of it. Duty came first. Always. “And I much prefer to make promises I’m able to keep.”

She sighed a bit dramatically. “Yes, well… never hurts to ask.”

He made a noncommittal sound, perhaps thinking asking wasn’t worth the effort if one was already certain of the answer.

The last of her worry and doubts finally cleared away, she twined her arms around his neck and swayed into him. She’d _missed_ him. “How about time, then?” 

He wrapped his arms around her waist, one hand splaying against the small of her back to pull her flush against him while other tugged at the tie in her braid. He spoke against her lips, “From now till daybreak,” and the timbre of his voice made her shiver. “And longer, if I have any say in it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _tried so hard_ to write up an actual intro and stuff and my brain just. Would. NOT.
> 
> Figured it was better to just go ahead and post it rather than letting it languish in my WIPs XD


	18. "That's gonna leave a bruise..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to popular belief, there's a bit of a learning curve when it comes to comforting someone after they've had a nightmare.
> 
> Takes place some time late 2.X / post-ARR
> 
> For a tumblr ask

Gwen has a nightmare. 

A bad one, evidently, as Thancred wakes to her screaming and struggling in his arms. She jabs him in the ribs with both elbows in a desperate bid for freedom. He chokes on an oath and jerks back, wheezing. That’s going to leave a bruise…

Gwen snaps awake and immediately recoils from him, disoriented and frightened. Reaching out for her only makes her retreat further– and fall out of bed with all the grace of a newborn dhalmel. She barely has time to let out a yelp before she hits the floor, the sound of impact overshadowed by a distressingly audible _crack!_

All of her panicked, confused sounds abruptly stop, replaced with a low, pained groan.

Thancred scrambles over to find her curled on her side and clutching the back of her head. He makes a low sound of sympathy and debates what to do. He’s never seen her so panicked before.

He decides against turning on the bedside lamp, thinking familiar darkness might be less distressing than a sudden flood of light. He can’t say for certain whether or not she’s liable to try bolting again, but startling her won’t do either of them any favors either way. 

He murmurs soothing things, hoping a familiar voice might offer some modicum of comfort or clarity. She cocks her head slightly towards him, listening, but shows no other signs of recognition. 

It’s a start.

He reaches out to brush tentative fingers against her shoulder, still mumbling soft, calming sounds. She tenses but doesn’t pull away, and her harsh, choppy breaths show no signs of evening out. 

After a few more light touches she starts to relax. He allows his hand to settle on her shoulder, and when that garners no negative reaction he gradually starts rubbing slow patterns on her back. 

Gwen seems to finally come to her senses while he’s assessing the damage –no blood, thankfully, but one hell of a knot– and croaks at him, pained and a little dazed but lucid. He tuts gently and informs her of the diagnosis.

Unsurprisingly, she’s mortified. He knows, though he can’t see it, that her face is blazing red and twisted with undue embarrassment, perhaps even shame. She goes still as stone, like he’s a predator rather than a friend, and doesn’t move even after he withdraws his hands.

He makes a joke, neglects to comment on her proficiency with elbow jabs, and offers his sympathies. He knows a thing or two about nightmares and head injuries–though, admittedly, not in this particular context. 

Gwen locks herself in her bathroom. 

Well. That isn’t what he’d wanted to happen.

Thancred tries offering apologies and reassurance instead. 

She barely responds beyond tremulously insisting that she’s alright, that she just needs a minute, and meekly requesting that he go back to sleep. 

The sound of unsteady breathing and palpable tension behind the door have him wondering if she hopes he’ll go back to his own room and leave her alone altogether. 

He feigns ignorance. If she wants him gone, she can say so outright.

He pretends his obstinance and stubbornness are patience and tries to coax her out. If nothing else, he offers, perhaps she could speak with him through the door until she feels more at ease. There’s no need to be ashamed or embarrassed, after all. Twelve know he’s had plenty of nightmares.

She’s having none of it. He gets no reply beyond a few muffled sounds.

Well then.

Thancred thinks to pick the lock, but decides against it. Instead he sits on her bed and waits, meaning to out-stubborn her.

Gwen spends the night in the bathroom. 

She doesn’t even crack the door to see if he’s left or gone back to sleep. Because she knew he wouldn’t, he realizes later. Seems he doesn’t give her enough credit.

Gwen avoids him the next day. It shouldn’t pose that big of a problem, seeing how she possesses no skill for stealth; yet he doesn’t see hide nor hair of her until she’s ducking out the door that afternoon. 

He wonders how much of that time she spent in the bathroom.

Then she’s gone for a sennight on an assignment with the Maelstrom.

Thancred gets a letter apologizing for missing him on the day of her departure and naught else. He’s not surprised.

When she comes back she doesn’t mention a single thing about that night.

He decides it’s not worth it to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-intentional no-dialogue challenge :D Was fun!
> 
> Gwen has big embarrassment energy @_@ Being the WoL makes it worse. TBH even if she weren’t the WoL she would have still been pretty thoroughly mortified to have hit the person she was sharing a bed with.
> 
> Thanks to @rhymingteelookatme, @evangeline-cross and @gwogobo (…and perhaps others? I put this in beta months ago and have just been sitting on it >.>;;;) for offering suggestions!!! :D


	19. "You're not in bed, I came looking for you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen can't sleep, and finds something to do to pass the time and clear her head.
> 
> Set some time between 2.2 and 2.4
> 
> From an ask received on tumblr.

Someone is playing a lute, the notes of a tune Gwen hasn’t heard before traveling steadily through the hall. The Stones is quiet and mostly still at this hour, but the tune is calm and not overly-loud, so no one is taking issue with it.

Gwen slowly unwinds her braid as she follows the music down the hall. She tries to concentrate on the sound and not the nebulous discomfort and restlessness that have been pinching at her thoughts all day. Even after a bell in front of her journal she still hasn’t been able to find a concrete cause, leaving her to think today is simply ‘one of those days,’ which does little in the way of helping her settle out and go to sleep. 

She huffs softly to herself, supposing she should be glad it’s nothing rather than something. 

The music draws her to the library, through the shelves and off to the right, where towering bookshelves obscure a few desks, chairs and a couch. 

She’s fairly certain she knows who’s playing and hopefully he, or his songs, can help put her mind at ease.

As Gwen nears the final row of bookshelves the song abruptly changes, picking up into a lighter, more whimsical tune that she recognizes. 

“‘Twould seem I’ve attracted an audience,” Thancred’s voice says from the other side of the bookshelf.

She rounds the corner and finds him laid out on the couch with a light-colored lute balanced on his chest. He greets her with a lopsided grin, “Recognize the tune?” 

Gwen hums and nods, hovering indecisively for a moment before perching on the arm of the couch by his feet, following along in her head with the lyrics he isn’t singing. She watches the way his hands move gracefully along the strings, never faltering or hesitating as he crafts a song out of thin air. 

Watching him play, his experience and practice manifesting in the form of casual skill and near-thoughtless ease, stirs a feeling of longing that’s equal parts admiration and wistful desire.

Gwen doesn’t know how to play the lute–or any instrument, for that matter. The entirety of her musical experience comes down to poking the keys on a piano and plucking at a harpsichord a time or two. She didn’t have the means to pay a teacher, nor acquire an instrument and teach herself, and she’d kept herself so busy she wouldn’t have had the time to practice, anyway.

_But_, she thinks idly, _things are different now. Maybe I could give it a try?_ It wouldn’t be terribly difficult to save up enough for a beginner’s instrument and a few lessons, if she felt truly inclined. And there are plenty of musically-inclined Scions who would probably be happy to help her get started if she decided to teach herself. That would mean she’d need to decide which instrument she wants to learn, though.

Could the Echo help? It let her comprehend and internalize magic and combat techniques more quickly than normal, so perhaps that could apply to learning music, too? It doesn’t seem like that much of a stretch.

…But, that wouldn’t be a very practical use of the Echo, would it? She’s supposed to use Hydaelyn’s gift to protect Eorzea and from Primals, Imperials and Ascian schemes, not play music.

Thancred strikes the last note with a flourish.

Gwen replaces whatever expression she’s wearing with an appreciative smile and applauds. His valiant attempt at a gracious bow from his reclined position leaves them both chuckling.

She gathers her hair over one shoulder and curls her fingers in it, “I haven’t heard you play in a while.”

Thancred shrugs, reaching for one of the tuning pegs. “It’s become a rarity, I admit. I’m more given to song and story these days.” He pulcks at the corresponding string, the note bending upwards ever so slightly when he twists the peg.

She realizes she hasn’t heard him sing in a while, either. 

“I haven’t played in moons,” he goes on, “but, happily, my skills have hardly suffered despite the neglect. I’ll be back in proper form in no time, should I make a habit of practicing.” He plucks the string again, humming with satisfaction once the rebellious pitch has fallen in line.

Thancred starts on another little ditty that sounds vaguely Lominsan and Gwen watches with rapt attention as his fingers move along the strings with lazy precision, quick and confident despite his obvious inattention. Even as she watches his hands move she’s left wondering how he could play so many notes and make so many sounds all at the same time–especially when his hands barely seem to move at all. 

If she did decide to learn an instrument, would she ever be able to play with that same sort of ease? Eventually, perhaps; after plenty of time and practice. Learning an instrument is one thing, but mastering it like Thancred has would be a long-term commitment.

It sounds far more daunting than it should.

“When did you get,” she nods to the lute, “this?”

“I borrowed it from F’lhaminn for the evening. She hasn’t had a great deal of time for music these days, either,” he replies with a shrug that somehow doesn’t disrupt the song in the slightest. “Tis a shame to leave such a fine instrument collecting dust.”

When Gwen has nothing to add but an absent nod, most of her attention still on his hands, he adds, “Ah, but I ramble. You sought me out for music, not prattling.”

_I ‘sought you out’ because I’m too restless to sleep and you weren’t in bed, so I came looking for you. I thought chatting could maybe help get my mind settled._ Gwen keeps her correction to herself, absently combing her fingers through her hair. “I don’t mind chatting.”

He hums thoughtfully, studying her expression. He brings his song to a rather abrupt end, laying his hands on the strings to fully silence the fading notes.

Confusion and mild disappointment flicker across her thoughts. She meant _chat while he played_, as he seemed to have no trouble managing both. Perhaps she should have been more specific.

He pushes himself upright, then offers her the lute with an inviting smile.

Gwen stares, nonplussed.

“You’ve been staring rather intently,” he teases. “And I would fain not deny you.” 

Well, she _has _been paying rather close attention to his hands. But enough to give him the impression she wanted a chance to play herself? Apparently so.

When a suitable way to decline the offer fails to materialize on her tongue she merely shakes her head.

He looks faintly amused as he turns to sit properly and make space for her on the couch. “Pray don’t deprive yourself on my account, dove. I don’t mind, truly.” 

She shakes her head again with a small, self-conscious laugh. “Really, it’s alright. I’d rather listen.”

Confusion flickers across his features and vanishes. He shrugs and rests the lute in his lap, rescinding the offer. “If you’re sure.”

Gwen slides down from the arm to the cushions. Then she shifts over to properly sit beside him. Not as close as she’d like, not close enough to lean on him or rest her head on his shoulder, but she doesn’t want to be a hindrance when he starts playing again. 

_If_ he starts playing again, she corrects herself. She hopes he will, as both the music itself and watching him play had been pleasantly distracting.

“I appreciate the offer, though,” she says.

Thancred flashes her a smile and shrugs. A look that’s both thoughtful and faintly teasing comes over his face before he adds, “I forget how unfond you are of having an audience.”

He’s not wrong, but he’s not right either. She sinks back into the couch with a noncommittal sound, studying the far wall and hoping he’ll start playing again. She isn’t much in the mood for quiet at that moment, unpleasant things threatening to resume bothersomely nudging and tugging.

“What do you play, by the way?” he asks conversationally. “It occurs to me I’ve never asked.”

Gwen considers how to answer for a moment, then settles for a simple shrug. “Nothing.”

“Oh?” Thancred looks honestly surprised, even though she’s never implied that she had any musical skill. 

She feigns a forlorn sigh and makes a bigger show of another, more hapless shrug. “There was a harpsichordist who didn’t mind letting me pick a few notes every now and then, but I don’t think that counts.”

“It didn’t appeal?” Thancred asks.

“No, I…” She tilts her head one way, then the other, thinking. “It wasn’t really an option.”

He considers that, then nods. “Instruments are costly and picking flowers isn’t the most profitable of professions?” He suggests knowingly.

Gwen’s lips pinch into a pout and she narrows her eyes at him.

He replies with an easy grin. “Am I wrong?”

“Hm.”

Thancred grins for half a moment then looks down at the lute, thinking and drumming his fingers on the neck. Wondering what to play next, maybe?

His expression suddenly brightens, “Well, fear not,” and he pushes the lute into her hands, “that’s a problem easily solved.”

More concerned about dropping or damaging the lute than protesting, Gwen clutches it awkwardly, delicate but firm as if it were fine glass rather than wood. She makes a vague sound of dissent before finding proper words, “I don’t really– I didn’t wasn’t trying to–” she shakes her head abashedly, “Really, I just wanted to listen.”

Thancred merely chuckles as he shifts over and settles just beside her, her fumbling protests inspiring nothing but amusement. He pulls one of her hands to the neck and the half-formed objections suddenly settle on her tongue and fade away. She stills, unsure if she should maybe try and make room for him or just let herself be moved. 

He leans into her and wraps an arm around her shoulders so his free hand can find her other, nudging his way half-behind her. “Here, hold it like this. Gently, now.” He pauses, “Well, I would say ‘like a lady, not a weapon’ but I don’t know if that would be terribly helpful.” 

Gwen sputters ineffectually, skin prickling –not unpleasantly– under the weight of his arm and the press of his side. Her back is ramrod straight, but she manages to not quite go rigid. A smidgen of curiosity nudges its way to the front of her thoughts, tempted by the chance to play. 

Undeterred by her sudden motionlessness, Thancred sets about getting her hands into place. “Hands here and here, light but firm. Ehh, you’ll get it. Now, straighten your fingers out– I didn’t say _splay_ them, dove, you won’t be able to play like that. Yes, that’s better. Here, put your hand in mine and push back against my fingers. Not too hard, just a bit.” 

She tentatively presses back against his hand, firm but not so much that he can’t readjust her grip. She’s reminded that his hand is larger than hers, though not by much. 

He has to adjust a bit so he can properly press down on her fingertips with his own, and her fingers bend along with his. Their layered hands curl a bit awkwardly around the neck to hover over the strings, but they manage it. “Good. Try to maintain that. So, first things first, this,” he shifts their hands a bit and presses her thumb to the top string, “is the E string.” 

He rattles off the letters for each string, pushing her fingers to touch each one in turn. Gwen can barely hear him, too distracted by his presence, the heat of his hands on hers, the pressure against her back, his chin brushing her shoulder and the occasional whisper of his breath through her hair or against her cheek. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wonders if there is any benefit at all to trying to teach like this, or if it’s solely an excuse to be close and touch. If it’s the latter she… doesn’t mind, really, though a bit more warning would have been appreciated

“Let’s start simple, shall we? Careful not to touch the other strings.” He spreads his fingers and hers belatedly follow, then guides them to pin two of the strings under her fingertips. “Curl your fingers up a bit more. More.” 

She has to shift her arm and crane her wrist at an awkward angle to arch her fingers over the neck and avoid the other strings. She wonders how he’d made it look so natural, even comfortable, when he’d been playing. 

“Good. And now,” his free hand finds where hers is sitting, forgotten, on the body of the lute, and guides it to the strings, “strum. Ah, but don’t use your nails. Use,” a nudge, a little twist, and he presses the outside of her thumb to a string, “the side of your thumb here. Alright, give it a try.” 

At a loss, she lets her thumb fall down the strings in a way that’s a bit like someone staggering down uneven stairs. 

A tottering chord blooms in the air, the notes choppy but all in harmony. 

Thancred hums approvingly, “Again, one fluid motion this time.” 

Gwen strums again, her touch a little heavier and smoother, and the same chord rings out louder and more steadily. Played properly, she recognizes it as one of the chords from that little shanty song he’d been playing.

Oh. That’s…rather simple–or simpler than she had expected it to be, somehow. But that’s how a lot of complicated things work, isn’t it? The individual pieces aren’t difficult, it’s when one tries to make something of them, or use many at once, that things become complex. Notes and chords might be simple and easy enough on their own, but being able to actually _play_ is something else entirely.

“And look at that, you’re already playing,” Thancred says approvingly. “Not so hard, is it?”

“It’s not,” Gwen agrees, studying the position of her fingers and the two strings she’s pinning.

Thancred’s fingers ease off and hers lift with them. “And then here,” he moves their hands down the neck, pressing down strings with her index, ring and little fingers. The bottom string –E? No, the top one was E, wasn’t it? Are there two? She should have listened– is noticeably thinner than the rest and digs a little more sharply. “Arch your fingers. Good. And…” 

At a prompting nudge she brushes her thumb across the strings again, making a new note. 

Gwen smiles to herself, a modicum of tension leaking out of her shoulders and back. 

“You’re a natural,” he hums.

“I’ve played two notes,” she replies.

“Chords,” he corrects. “And you played them well.”

Gwen shoots him a sideways look and stiffens when she’s reminded his face is only ilms from hers. He grins guilelessly in reply.

She shakes off the minor surprise and works her expression into something skeptical before casting a meaningful look at their hands: hers on the strings with his to guide them.

Thancred rolls his eyes, “Fine, don’t take the compliment. Now, here…”

He guides her to the next note, and the one after that until they fall into a steady, slow rhythm. The lazy pace and gaps between each note made it a little odd-sounding, but the fact she hadn’t yet managed to hit a wrong note boosts her confidence.

Gwen lets herself be absorbed in the moment, concentrating on her hands and trying to remember which strings to press or strum for which notes. Her mind starts to haze over a little as she gradually relaxes, growing more comfortable and content with the press of his arm and his hands around hers with each note. 

She finally notices that his hands are calloused and rough like hers, and then realizes she’s not wearing her gloves. That’s probably good, actually, as they likely would have gotten in the way of playing.

She shifts a little, resettling a little more comfortably, and he does the same. They manage to not upset their slow song, and she smiles to herself.

The notes start to come more slowly, the pauses between them stretching longer even though the song isn’t over.

Gwen doesn’t notice when they stopped altogether until the last note has fully faded from the air. She blinks the haze away and lifts her head, feeling oddly groggy, “Hm?”

“Oh, you are awake,” Thancred says with a laugh. “And here I thought you’d dozed.”

“Ah, sorry.” She realizes how heavily she’s leaning against him and sits up, heat sparking in her cheeks, “I, ah, heh, seems I’m more tired than I thought…”

He gives her an easy smile, “Tis the nature of music to let time get away from you. Mayhaps we should call it a night?” 

He releases her hands and takes the lute as he leans away. The places she’d been pressed against him feel a little cold. It’s easy to distract herself from that, as the wrist she had craned around the neck is complaining enthusiastically and her fingertips stinging from the strings, each with a small little dent in them. “My wrist would appreciate a break,” she says with a laugh, rubbing at the ache.

Thancred chuckles sympathetically, “Ah, right. You’ll get used to that if you keep up with it. We can continue our lessons another time, but…” he catches her hand and ducks his head to brush his lips against her knuckles.

Gwen stiffens again, the nearly-extinguished sparks bursting into a full blush. 

He grins, a little smug, “…Perhaps at a more reasonable hour next time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ <s>do not ask me how long I’ve had this 85% complete because the answer is SO. FUCKING. LONG. adlfjaskldfjasoidfjalskdnfa</s> _
> 
> Endings are hard lol but I think this came out alright!
> 
> Thanks rhymingteelookatme for beta-ing! <s>forever ago OTL lmao</s>
> 
> Is this even a semi-legitimate way to teach someone guitar??? _Probably not_


	20. Intimacy asks NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of a few intimacy/sex/NSFW asks from tumblr.
> 
> cw: Sexual content, though not overly explicit

**NSFW: O, Q, U**

**O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)**

Gwen’s first time for all standard, vanilla intimacy was with her first boyfriend (Valtemont.) which includes giving and receiving oral. He had a bit more experience than her but he still had stuff to figure out, especially where sex and intimacy was concerned. There was lot of fumbling, but the fact that it was mutual made her feel less self-conscious about her lack of skill, though she struggled to be confident and forward enough to initiate without prompting. Neither of them were very good at instructing the other, and he tended to get discouraged more quickly than she did. By the time they broke up she didn’t mind giving oral, but she didn’t particularly _like_ it either. 

The second man she was with (Aldous) was more experienced and confident, and he was better able to instruct her in what to do. But he was pushier, more selfish and tended not to reciprocate, so she came to dislike it. They weren’t together terribly long, either.

It’s been 5+ years since then, so she had to get the hang of it again. She was initially self-conscious about her lack of skill, but Thancred is more patient and better at teaching and reassuring, on top of being more appreciative of her efforts, so she has been growing more confident with practice. All of that together has led her to enjoy giving a lot more, and getting a lot better at it.

She’s always enjoyed being on the receiving end, though after Aldous it took a bit of time for her to really accept that Thancred actually enjoyed going down on her and he didn’t think of it negatively, or as some sort of obligation. She also came to enjoy it alot more once she became comfortable with the idea that she didn’t need to be worried about the two of them being ‘even’, and that they didn’t even necessarily need to have sex after. (ie: those occasional, curious instances of “I’m just horny AF for you right now, idc about actually having sex”)

**Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)**

Gwen is a very touchy person during sex (I mean, the girl is touch-starved) and prefers to take her time, including plenty of post-sex cuddles. She definitely prefers having all night, or an hour or three, so she doesn’t feel rushed and can properly focus on the experience and her partner (and properly distract herself from everything else going on, if needed.)

That said, especially these days, she knows they don’t always have that kind of time, what with her and Thancred being in such high demand and having so much to do, so she’s ok with just making the best of whatever time they have. Practice has let them both get better at making the most of it, too.

Still, quickies are a solid 2nd place.

While Gwen likes sex, she very rarely actually _needs_ it. She doesn’t get horny on her own all that often, though (especially with time and experience) it’s not too hard to get her in the mood. Most of the time she’s content with a lot of cuddling and touching and kissing, as contact, time together and physical connection are what she really values, and sex is a bonus. It’s always a very effective and enjoyable way to distract herself and get her mind (or Thancred’s) off of things.

**U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)**

Gwen isn’t particularly skilled with teasing, but she does make an effort! Plus, she’s not the most patient, which doesn’t usually lend itself to teasing haha.

Most of her teasing is actually a result of trying to play off or overcome her own shyness or reserved nature. She will be a little slow in removing clothing (her own or her partner’s) her touches start light and slow, and she tends to muffle herself, but encouragement and reassurance from her partner and her growing confidence help her to be less hesitant and not hold herself back. 

Teasing not related to shyness usually involves small things like bending over just the right way, (attempting) a lingering gaze and coy smile, dodging/denying kisses, or some form of malicious compliance. “You’re the one that said people will notice if I’m ‘disheveled’ when we go back. Guess that means you have to keep your hands to yourself. ;D”

**NSFW: G, M  
**

**G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous) **

Gwen does get into the moment, but there’s always time for a quip or joke or little tease. Trading banter during sex is part of the fun! Laughing and making-light are just more ways to relax and distract and get into the moment, and can help ease any sort of tension or nervousness. She’s not the best at cracking jokes or making comments on her own, but she’s plenty good at trading back and forth. 

The banter and laughter tends to taper off as things really start to get going, but there’s still been plenty of instances of silly or wry comments during.

Despite both of them insisting tickling is off limits during sex, it still happens.

**M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going) **

High emotion that needs an outlet, stress that she wants some sort of reprieve or distraction from, adrenaline she wants to burn/a ‘victory high,’ and her partner simply just wanting _her_, regardless of her appearance or responsibilities she/they have (aka: her being actively desired for who she is, not just because she’s the WoL) Her partner putting effort and thought into something purely for her sake, particularly when it’s something that wouldn’t directly benefit or help them somehow (such as taking care of Duskfeather’s tack for her) are pretty big, also. 

She has recently realized she’s just as susceptible to traditional seduction (poems, flirting, romantic gestures, ‘setting the mood’) as everyone else, should it come from the right person. And she also has a bit of a weakness for skillful labor and someone working with their hands, from training to crafting to even studying and researching, depending on the setting. Watching someone do work and get shit done, even if it’s difficult, even if it leaves them sweaty and covered in dirt, is pretty great in her book.

Slow-and-steady buildup is often a win, little touches that grow into more over time, taking their time with one another and making time _for_ one another.

Positive feedback and reactions from her partner are a really big deal for her, from sounds to touching to urging her on. Knowing they’re enjoying themselves and getting (approximately) as much enjoyment out of the whole thing as she is very important to her.

**NSFW: F, N, O  
**

**F = Favourite Position **(This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

<strike>No visuals lmao sorry</strike>

Gwen is pretty inexperienced and vanilla, honestly, and prefers positions that let her partner take the lead, particularly early on. In the beginning it was a lot of being on her back, and neither she nor Thancred minded one bit. She also discovered being lifted and pinned to a wall can be _pretty hot_.

She generally prefers positions that allow her to touch her partner and see their reactions, but she’s also a fan of having him behind her. 

With time, experience and growing confidence she came to enjoy being the one on top, though Thancred still tends to have some level of control and kind of “tops from the bottom,” in those situations, except for a handful of occasions where Gwen was determined to be the one in control.

**N = NO **(Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Gwen is tries to keep an open, curious mind in regards to sex, though tends to be shy about making suggestions or asking to try new things. She’s willing to at least have a conversation about stuff she or her partner want to try/do before making a decision on it, but even so there are some things she _is not_ willing to do, or even consider trying. Those include:

Any sort of assault play or non-con, giving or receiving (being a little rough is fine, but no further than that)

Anything pertaining to *cough* bodily functions, giving or receiving (_no exceptions_)

Pain, giving or receiving (specifically, things intended either to cause more pain than pleasure, or only cause pain. Smaller things like hair pulling, hickeys and light spanking are fine, but anything more than that is a no-go.)

Derogatory remarks/demeaning/name calling, giving or receiving (talking dirty is fine, insults aren’t)

Feet stuff, giving or receiving (foot massages are nice, but leave it at that)

Butt stuff, receiving (giving is basically ‘no’ too, but if her partner brought it up she would at least be willing to hear them out and discuss it. Even so, probably a ‘no’)

Public spaces/out in the open, giving or receiving (unless they are 100% alone, like camping in the woods)

General turnoffs: Being too rough, being forceful or insistent, lewd jokes/remarks (they can be funny and amusing, but they’re never hot), trying to rush everything (outside of general “it’s a quickie and/or we don’t have long so we need to be fast”), lack of reciprocation/general selfishness from her partner

**E = Experience** (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Gwen does have experience but not much of it, and it’s all pretty vanilla. Neither of her former SOs were particularly adventurous beyond the occasional change of scenery, nor was she, mostly due to inexperience and her own shyness. 

Her sample size is small, but it was enough to give her a general idea of what she does and doesn’t like, and the sort of things she likes from her partner (such as vocal responses/encouragement.) She is far better and far more comfortable reciprocating and matching her partner’s intensity/enjoyment than she is at initiating, and even when she does initiate she tends to prefer getting it started and then letting them take the lead and following along, and/or trading back and forth.

She’s become a lot more comfortable, confident and adventurous with Thancred, though she can still be shy about suggesting new things to try.


End file.
